


An Act Too Often Neglected

by Gement



Series: Kryptonite Collar by Red Starlight [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Background Poly, Blocked Powers, Collars, Dom Bruce Wayne, For Science!, Green Kryptonite, Honor Kink, Kryptonite Is Clark's Kryptonite, M/M, Pet Play, Sensory Deprivation, Sub Clark Kent, background Clark/Lois, gentle Dom/sub, kryptonite play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23143798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gement/pseuds/Gement
Summary: "To be clear," Bruce said, "you would like to have sex, in my bed, wearing a device that could kill you."Oh, good, this could work. "A device that you could use to kill me. Yes."[Episodic shorts. No cliffhangers.]
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: Kryptonite Collar by Red Starlight [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656628
Comments: 89
Kudos: 182





	1. To Establish Ties

**Author's Note:**

> I recommend [The View from the Ground](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22966543) to understand how they've ended up here, but you are the captain of your own reading ship!
> 
> This is actually part 3 of the series, but we could all use something nice right now so screw delayed gratification. The not-yet-finished part 2 can be cheerfully summarized as "They started banging in the red sunlight gym. Clark likes getting held down. Quelle surprise."

Clark tapped his knuckles on the doorframe of Bruce's study. "Hey."

Bruce looked up at him, smiling. His staggeringly expensive shirt was open at the throat, showing off the powerful lines of his neck. Clark had been paying more attention to necks lately. 

"You made it." The warmth of his voice when he was Bruced-up was still surprising. It had taken time to learn that it wasn't _always_ a front, that Bruce really could look at someone with that soft, warm smile and mean it.

"Three hours, midday, in your schedule? I am officially head-down getting a big article wrapped, and the league is not to call either of us for less than a tsunami. Oh, and." Clark swooped forward, letting his toes brush the carpet, to kiss Bruce's nose. "That's from Lois, who thanks you very much for the chance to find out how much she likes me sweaty."

Bruce's smile broadened like a sunburst. "She is very welcome." He grabbed a handful of Clark's family crest and kissed him all the way to the tonsils. "Return to sender."

"Mmm." Clark straightened up, giving him a little space. "I was thinking, it's been blazing all week. It would take me half an hour just to run myself down to red sun levels, and . . . How would you feel about upstairs? Your room?" It was a flimsy excuse. Things seemed like they were going well, but Bruce was Bruce.

Bruce paused, leaning back in his chair. "I never meant to say we could only fuck in the basement," he said carefully. "It was important to me for the first time, and it seemed like you liked it that way, but my ego is not so fragile that I would kick you out of bed for having powers."

Clark nodded. "I wasn't actually worried about that."

"Okay?" Bruce watched him with sharp eyes.

Just say it. "I wondered if you'd let me wear the collar."

" _The_ collar."

"Yes."

"To be clear," Bruce said, "you would like to have sex, in my bed, wearing a device that could kill you."

Oh, good, this could work. "A device that you could use to kill me. Yes."

Bruce stood up from his chair, shedding about half of the lazy rich boy as he moved, and ran his finger in a line just below Clark's Adam's apple, exactly where the thick steel collar had rested with its secret lead-lined heart of poison. Clark's breath caught.

"Yeah," Bruce said, his fingertip resting lightly on the spot. "Hold it just like that. Don't move a muscle."

Sweet holy fuck, that was hot. Clark did his best not to refocus his eyes when Bruce walked away. He did not breathe. He did not blink. Air currents swirled gently around him when Bruce opened the elevator entrance.

Other than that, the only motion he could feel as he listened to Bruce move around in the cave was his cock shifting against his briefs as it hardened. Bruce gave it a friendly pat as he strolled through the study again, not even bothering to check Clark's position. He knew. He knew Clark knew he knew that Clark was staying exactly where he'd been told.

Clark considered himself a very lucky man.

He listened to Bruce with as much focus as he could, doing his best to let the rest of the world subside to an undifferentiated roar. Finally, he heard the bed creak.

"Walk here," Bruce said. He did not say not to cheat. He didn't have to. Clark walked.

The bedroom door was open. The excellent blackout curtains were drawn and the warm yellow lamps lighting the room were just LED bulbs; only the faintest tingle of heat prickled on Clark's skin. He closed the door behind himself.

Bruce sat at the foot of his bed, his bare feet planted a casually aggressive distance apart. He was rolling up his shirt sleeves to show his forearms. He looked loose and easy, like he should be talking about nothing important while holding a drink. The collar lay open beside him, polished and deadly.

He rewarded Clark with a brief, genuine smile. "Naked, please."

Clark couldn't recall the last time he'd taken off the costume at human speed. He kicked off his boots and shimmied out of it carefully, then crouched down to get it over his ankles. He left it on the floor, sinking his toes into the rug, which he noticed was wool and an interesting geometric design before he managed to pull his vision back where it belonged, which was watching Bruce watch him.

Bruce didn't say anything, just gestured down with one finger. Clark knelt between his knees, careful not to tamper with gravity or speed. Bruce set a warm hand on the side of his neck and watched him with a solemn, neutral expression. Then he reached without looking away and brought the collar around Clark's neck in a single smooth motion, the lock snapping closed under his right ear.

Clark shivered and settled.

"Like that?" Bruce said, rubbing his thumbs along Clark's jaw muscles.

"Yes." Clark closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Thank you. For knowing."

"You like stories about knights and things," Bruce quoted back at him softly. "Mostly."

"Mostly."

"Now." Bruce kissed his forehead once and tapped under his chin. He waited for eye contact, then spoke, low and quiet. "This collar is live. I am wearing the control. There is a failsafe, which I will not switch off even if you ask, but if I did, you would be one finger movement and a ninety-second wait from death. Do you believe me?"

"Yes." Clark's senses telescoped, learning everything he could possibly know about Bruce's face and voice and breath as he talked.

"How does that feel?"

He thought about it. "Safe."

Bruce's smile was slow and sweet, and Clark saw the extra water in his eyes. "Good." He kissed Clark's lips, barely a brush, not an invitation to move. "I need you to be absolutely honest with me now. Is wearing it for me what you wanted, just like this? Or do you want me to use it?"

Clark only had uselessly human similes for the feeling churning in him. Like stepping off a cliff, for example. In his experience, it was only like itself. Like asking Bruce to hurt him.

"Please use it," he said, more moving his lips than speaking. "Enough to keep me from taking it off. You decide how much more than that."

Bruce nodded and ruffled his fingers through the short hair at the base of Clark's skull. He held up the other hand, with a black electronic fob the size of a keychain strapped to his wrist. Clark watched it swing in his periphery, keeping his eyes locked on Bruce's.

"Down you go," Bruce said, and in the most delicious slow motion Clark could stretch his senses to perceive, he pressed a button. The mechanism clicked open in a slow ripple of fine clockwork.

An attenuated second later, the pain rose from an ache to a stab to an insufficient metaphor that slammed into him and tore away his ability to make a second last for half an hour. He doubled over, clawing at his throat.

"There you go." Bruce stroked the back of his head. "That's right."

It was so much worse than he remembered. He had blended it in his memory with the slow, steady exhaustion of red sun lamps, letting his body find its natural pace. There was nothing natural about this, and nothing bearable. Nausea with no outlet, pain with no escape, hands fumbling and dropping.

Ninety seconds of this, this or something worse, and he would be dead. The idea that it could be worse was difficult to imagine. His sense of time was completely shot. He clung to the knowledge of the failsafe. Bruce would not let him die of this. Just suffer.

"This is a high initial load," Bruce said from far away, "to knock you down quickly. That way I can ease it up to a trickle without giving your strength back too fast." Hands on his shoulders, barely registering. "You won't be going anywhere. Just a little longer."

Bruce pulled him by the hair to unbend him a little. Clark didn't contribute, and didn't really notice what was happening until Bruce drew him close to rub his cheek into Bruce's crotch, sliding against his erection through the fabric of his slacks.

"Whr," Clark said.

"You probably lost track of the sex part. I'll be impressed if it turns out you were into it on this setting. But I am."

Bruce held his head there, a warm pressure all along one side of his face. Knowing he wasn't alone didn't make it bearable; nothing would make it bearable. But he wasn't alone. Bruce had him, and Bruce was _actually enjoying this_.

Bruce pressed gentle fingers into the hollow of his throat under his jaw, then there was a click sound. Click should mean less pain, everything still hurt, what if it was stuck, what if he was going to die . . . The pain eased, slowly, slowly, down to a fine thread of acidic agony, and Clark realized he still must have been stretching time a little, lingering on Bruce's fingers despite the pain.

Bruce shifted, tilting his hips to grind against Clark's ear. Clark leaned against him harder, tipping his head to add a little more motion. Even that much told him his balance was nonexistent. The room spun.

"Mm," Bruce said. "Nice."

With his slowly increasing clarity, Clark understood that Bruce's fingers were on his pulse, and that even if the mechanism had jammed, Bruce probably had five ways of getting the collar off, up to and including ripping it apart with his bare hands.

"Not com'n off," Clark said.

"No. Not until I take it off."

"Not gon' kill me."

"No. I won't let it kill you."

"'nk you."

"You're welcome."

Bruce rested a thumb on Clark's lower lip. It was an invitation, but Clark's tongue didn't work yet. Too heavy. Soon, though. In the meantime, Bruce rocked against him, enjoying him. Even though he couldn't move. Because he couldn't move.

"Let's get you up here where I can look at you." Bruce got down and put Clark's arm over his shoulder to lift him. Clark tried to help, but only threw himself off-balance. "Just relax for me."

That was a nice clear task. Clark hung his head and let himself be moved like a doll. It leaned his chin closer to the kryptonite, enough to notice, but of course that was also enough to sap the strength he could have used to lift his head. Bruce would fix it. Or not. Bruce would look at him.

Bruce put him on his back, straightened his head and limbs, and settled the collar. Then he lay down beside him, one leg wrapped over his body, and smoothed his hair with slow, careful fingers. Clark could feel him placing the spit curl and giggled.

"You're right, what was I thinking. Totally wrong impression." Bruce scrubbed at his hair until it was a tangle of waves and curls. "There. Now you look as undone as you feel."

Clark tried to nod. The nausea was settling down. He was just made of lead. That would make him opaque. Ha. Bruce was covered in way too much fabric. "Skinnn."

"You have a lot of skin." Bruce ran a hand across his chest. "How does it feel? Different?"

"Mm." Clark wasn't sure how to answer that one. "Mur skinn. Yurs."

"Ahhh." Bruce kept trailing fingers in a wandering shape on Clark's body. "How about this. I will undo one button every time you tell me 'please' out loud."

It took Clark longer than he expected, still worn out from the effort of shaping words. He enunciated. "P-leease."

It took long enough to rest up for another one that Bruce had already taken his hand away and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Clark felt his position, palms up and open to the sky through his eyelids and a few flimsy layers of house, barely able to twitch. All that stood between him and annihilation was Bruce. "Pleazzze."

"Good," Bruce said softly, fiddling with his shirt.

"Please." He pushed a little faster at the expense of his diction. "Pls. Pls. Pls."

"Mmm." Bruce kissed him. "That's all the buttons." Ear nibbles while Bruce opened his shirt and rubbed in close, chest to chest. Bruce's mouth was warm and wet. When he spoke, it had just a hint of a growl. "Tell me what you want."

Words were getting easier. "Sleeve, please, Brrruce."

"Say it again."

He repeated it, with a couple of extra "please, Bruce," because every time he said it, Bruce ground hard against his side. Before Bruce had even finished stripping off his shirt, Clark was chanting, "Belt, please, Bruce, fly, please, Bruce," every part of a pair of slacks he could think of to get him naked, naked, naked. To have Bruce near enough, in this strange sickdizzy twilight state where he had nothing else.

Bruce wrapped around him, skin to skin. Clark relaxed. Bruce laid his arm on Clark's open palm. "Squeeze for me. Hard as you can."

Clark wrapped his fingers around lazily.

"Harder. Hard as you can."

Clark tried. It didn't change much. "Yes."

"Good." Bruce tugged up on the collar as far as it would go, maybe an inch from the front of Clark's throat, and held it there.

After a few seconds, his head cleared remarkably. Inverse square law. The dose must be minute, for an inch to make that kind of difference, and it couldn't be building up in his body much. He blinked slowly at Bruce. "Just in my head."

"Yes. Keep squeezing. I'm bringing you up, just a little." He lowered the collar again and the fog descended. Raised it, lowered it, over and over in a slow rhythm. Clark's strength gently waxed and waned.

He had an amusing thought, and smiled. On the next long pause up, he said, "You're fucking my throat."

"Mmm," Bruce said. Lower. "That's what it feels like?" Raise.

"Yes."

"Is it good?"

"Yes."

"Mmmmm." Bruce slid his cock against Clark's hip in matching movements. "I was going to open the curtains for a quick burst, but that really can't compete with a kryptonite blow job, can it." On the next lower, he pressed the collar against Clark's throat, hard enough to hurt his momentarily vulnerable windpipe.

"Nnngh."

Bruce's voice dropped an octave. "I like that sound." He did it again.

Clark's senses swayed with the deep, body-rocking thrusts down and slow drifts up. The ups were longer, and the downs were shorter. His hand stayed gripping more reliably, clinging to Bruce's wrist.

"There," Bruce said. He sat up and encouraged Clark to make a fumbling roll to his side, head in Bruce's lap. "Now you can be useful as well as decorative." He spoke low again. "Though you decorate my bed beautifully."

Clark made a happily agreeable noise and squirmed his nose toward Bruce's cock with his newfound mobility. He reached with his tongue; Bruce shifted to let him lick and suck. The position let the collar fall away from his throat a little. He got more ambitious, trying to reach deeper, suck harder.

Bruce stroked a hand down him to cup his crotch, rubbing slowly. "I'm curious," he said, "whether you can get hard before your grip strength gets dangerous. It's an interesting experiment."

"Mmm." Clark squeezed his wrist to be helpful.

"Thank you. You're nowhere near yet." Bruce cradled his head with the hand that wasn't massaging his groin. It all felt nice. Not going much of anywhere, but nice. "For the experiment to have any validity, I need to create the right conditions, though."

Clark made a more determined attempt to suck away some of Bruce's vocal control. Difficult at the best of times, and he was playing with a handicap. Bruce pulled him up briskly and kissed his mouth. Clark cozied into his arms.

"The right conditions in this case," Bruce said sternly in his ear, "mean finding your perfect use. Not just good enough, or first best guess, but the shape that fits you like it was made for you. Just like this was made" — he pulled the collar tight — "to your exact measurements. I'm a perfectionist."

"You are," Clark agreed. He leaned into the tug on the metal.

"People get on their knees to escape," Bruce continued, his voice hypnotic and steady. "To come closer. To learn. To clear their minds. To hurt. To be soothed. To grow. To be contained. Give service. Get attention. Fear. Safety. Chaos. Order. Every possible reason. You came to me. You went down on your knees like you were made for it." He turned Clark's face to his and stared him down. "What were you made for, Clark?"

Oh. That was a big question. There were big truths and little truths. The big truth burned like Sol and wouldn't stay unspoken. "I was made to be good," he said without hesitation. "You know that."

Bruce nodded.

"But . . . today. With you." Clark let his eyes drift, thinking. "To learn? To . . . You said . . . I pretend too hard. Not to be an animal. Can't stop pretending or I'll hurt someone. Now I can't hurt someone. Can learn. I think."

"Learn to be a creature," Bruce said. "Creatures want, and struggle, and make mistakes."

"And don't think ver' well." The collar had been against his neck for a while. He lifted his hand slowly to adjust it.

Bruce laughed, then pulled the hand away, gently but firmly. "You don't do that. I do that."

Clark relaxed, blurry. Bruce put a hand between his legs again.

"Thank you. Last question, handsome creature."

Clark smiled.

"Your nature. Are you a beast? Or are you a pet?"

For the first time that day, Clark wanted to hide. To be elsewhere. He couldn't answer, and he couldn't explain why not. He buried his face in Bruce's shoulder.

Bruce rubbed the back of his head. "You're safe. There is nothing you can say that I won't take good care of." He waited, stroking slowly.

"Pet," Clark mumbled into Bruce's shoulder. His face burned. "Wan' be tame. Good." He felt his cock twitch against the heel of Bruce's hand.

Bruce wrapped both arms around him and squeezed him in a crushing hug. "Thought so," he said softly. "Thank you."

Clark still wanted to hide. He kept his face pressed tightly away.

"A good pet can be brave. Loyal. Selfless. You're already an amazing pet, Clark. And if you want another species for a while, that's fine, but based on my sample size of one, Kryptonians make great pets."

Oh. Clark melted, his muscles easing. The kryptonite still nudged at him queasily, but that was just his leash, wasn't it.

"There we go. That's better." Bruce scratched and rubbed behind Clark's ear, letting him keep his face hidden. "Clark," he whispered in his ear. "You want to be good?"

Clark just nodded.

"Down, Clark. Get down and suck me."

Clark slid down quickly, grateful for something simple, something that didn't seem perverse. His hearing was sometimes regrettable when it meant knowing more than he should about what his neighbors got up to. This wasn't about . . . dress-up. Or food dishes.

He was pretty sure Maggie Schumacher from three floors down would have something to say about him looking askance at dress-up and food dishes, but he was not talking with Maggie. He was wrapping his mouth around the head of Bruce's cock, with a poisoned collar swinging just below his chin. Bruce, who somehow understood. Bruce, who could let him be an Arthurian knight and a cocksucking pet at the same time, which didn't make any more sense no matter how much his head cleared.

Bruce sighed with pleasure and leaned back on the bed, propped on one elbow. He kept a hand on Clark's head in a slow, reassuring petting motion. It wasn't physically different than it had been, but the knowledge of a perfect fit, of Bruce laying him open and exposing that knowledge, was electrifying. Clark abandoned technique and buried his face in Bruce's crotch. He slurped messily, inhaling hard to fill himself with Bruce's scent. Pets could do that.

"That's right. Good Clark."

Clark wasn't sure how he could hear the absence of a comma, but he also wasn't sure how rubbing his face against Bruce's balls was as satisfying as deepthroating. He tried to dip down lower with his tongue, but Bruce pulled him up by the collar, unstoppable, choking a little as Clark kept trying. "Not what I asked for. Suck, Clark."

His voice was patient. He bumped his cock against Clark's lips for emphasis. Clark sucked properly, obedient and steady, matching the rhythm that Bruce nudged him to follow.

"Good. Perfect. Deeper." Bruce tucked his fingers between the collar and the nape of Clark's neck, pushing him down and driving the kryptonite painfully into his throat at the same time, making him falter. He couldn't think, and his mouth was clumsy. "You can do it. Try for me."

Clark tried. His mouth wouldn't get a good seal. Drool dripped from his lips all over Bruce's cock. He could move his head up and down as Bruce guided him, stroking with greedy tongue. Bruce pushed him down further, filling his throat. Clark was not making enough sense to help or swallow, just let it happen.

"Bite, Clark."

Clark froze. Bruce was too deep in his mouth to let him make the noise of alarm building in his throat.

"You heard me. Bite. Hard as you can. You can't hurt me. I won't let you. Bite."

He tried. Gingerly at first, then harder as he realized exactly how soft and useless his mouth was. He tried to snap his jaws closed on Bruce's cock. Bruce didn't even twitch, just sighed again. Clark thrashed his head, or tried to, but Bruce's hand was steady and just moved with him to tilt him an inch from side to side, wobbling him gently. Clark scratched his fingers at Bruce's thighs, trying as hard as he could to get any kind of reaction.

"See?"

Everything was getting hazy. Clark sagged. Bruce sat up and pulled him in to nuzzle dreamily, nose bumping against Bruce's neck. He adjusted the collar to hang at a head-clearing distance.

"Perfect. You stay right there."

'Right there' was on his knees, body leaned awkwardly forward and up to support himself on Bruce. Bruce spat in his hand and reached down to rub at Clark's cock. Not jerking him off, just supporting him, giving him a little friction.

"Now, the experiment." Bruce sounded firm and clear, like when he laid out a tactical plan. "Hands where I can feel them, good grip." He kept Clark's head snug with his other hand.

Clark grabbed a bicep and steadied himself against Bruce's ribs.

"Perfect. Remember, there's no such thing as a wrong answer to an experiment, just gathering data. Kryptonian sexual response under radioactive power suppression, test one. Reducing suppression dosage linearly while stimulating the subject. That's you."

"Yes, I got that," Clark said into his collarbone. He wasn't sure what to make of the change in tone, but Bruce's odd, dry sense of humor was still reassuring. It didn't make him any less in charge.

"I don't care if you get hard," Bruce said, moving his hand slowly. "I don't care if you come. Both of those are lies. I'll enjoy it and prefer it. But those aren't your job. You have two jobs. One, keep giving me honest data on your grip strength." He flexed his arm under Clark's hand. "Two . . ." He rolled Clark's balls between his fingers, digging the heel of his hand in. "Do what feels good. Feel good for me, Clark."

A lot of things could feel good, but in this position, with his hands occupied and Bruce restraining his head, the only practical option was grinding against Bruce's hand. It was not a dignified situation. Clark moved his hips slowly.

He was soft, his cock completely wilted ever since Bruce knocked him down with a dose of kryptonite directly to his brain's blood supply, but the gentle roll back and forth against Bruce's palm felt good, everything rubbing against itself. His skin stuttered and dragged; Bruce's spit actually added friction instead of reducing it, but that was good too.

"It's just us," Bruce said. "Go ahead."

Clark thrust harder, trying to get more pressure at the root of his cock. His arousal was a vague, tantalizing itch that needed scratching. If he could just find the right angle, the right . . . something. He tried harder, really jamming himself against Bruce's hand.

"Yeah. Move for me. Good Clark."

It wasn't getting anywhere, though. He ground as hard as he could. A frustrated little noise started in his throat. He stopped it at first, then remembered he didn't have to. He whined in time with the movement. The skin of his cock rolled loose and easy between Bruce's hand and his belly, and he couldn't — 

"You're a fast learner. Look at you. Not twenty minutes since we learned what to call you, and you're already humping my hand and whining for it. Shameless. You're gorgeous."

Bruce grabbed Clark's balls, giving him something to tug against. Clark tugged hard. Deep pressure. He enjoyed a lot more of that than most people could even stand, a perk of invulnerability, and he needed it now, something more intense, anything to reach that elusive feeling. Bruce released his head, giving him more play to really yank.

"Kiss me, Clark."

Clark kissed him, clumsy with his attempt to keep grinding, then realized the instruction was, in context, ambiguous. He had enough strength now to stay steady by his grip on Bruce's arm, so his other hand could move more. He draped his shoulder over Bruce's, making it easier to keep their faces close together, and started licking Bruce's face as obnoxiously as possible. Bruce didn't keep any actual pets, and even committed dog lovers tended to flinch at a full nostril lick.

Bruce laughed and scruffed him to hold him still, so he could only slobber on Bruce's neck. "Now we're getting somewhere."

Sure enough, Clark realized he was stiffening up. He could get a linear thrust, not just a roll. His foreskin was sliding, and he'd been leaking enough precome that, yes, this could work. He kept yanking on his balls, letting his cock move against Bruce's wrist.

"Just had to figure out what you needed." Bruce's voice dropped to a menacing growl. "And it's so simple. You just need to be good for me."

Clark groaned.

"And have a little room to play. Somewhere safe." Bruce squeezed his balls. "Just us, and I know how to handle you." He wiggled the collar. "Perfect fit."

Clark clutched harder at Bruce's arm. Good feedback, had to give good feedback, he was getting stronger and he just needed, just needed . . .

"Mmm, I think we might need a tiebreaker here. You're close, aren't you. So close."

"Yeah." Clark was in no way out of breath, but he panted anyway.

"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to come on my hand, and just as soon as you do, I'm going to knock you all the way back down again and _fuck_ you in my bed. In my collar. While you're still too sick to _move_."

Arousal shot through Clark and tightened his balls. "Yeah. Ngh, yeah. You can go fast, with the —"

"I know how to _fuck_ you, Clark. You just have to _come_ for me, so I can _hurt_ you."

Clark whimpered. So close.

"Come, Clark. _Now._ " Bruce clenched his hand into a fist.

Clark jerked, gasping, and came all over Bruce's arm, still grinding in the slippery heat of it when he heard the click and all logic melted in the face of blinding, sickening pain.

He was drowning in it. The green glow sheeting around him was a hallucination, it was supposed to be green so he saw green, but sensation was all he had and the sensation was his body still trying to thrust while the collar tried to drown him in green, and neither of them would succeed because Bruce had the controls.

Bruce. Control. Green. Ow. Ow. Ow.

Clark was on his back, too far gone to open his eyes or twitch his hands yet, and Bruce was slicking him up quickly. He did know how. He knew he didn't have to worry about stretching Clark too fast. Usually the concern would be making sure he'd relaxed enough not to crush anything, but the collar took care of that, so . . .

Bruce picked up one of Clark's legs and shoved into him. It felt huge. It felt great.

"God, Clark. Fuck. Such an easy fuck." Bruce was babbling, pounding him, a hand around his throat just above the collar. "So good for me."

Clark floated in a leaden haze while Bruce rammed him. When he could flex his fingers reliably, at least enough to feel them, he worked on voice. "Pls Brrrce."

Bruce gasped and hammered harder.

"Ysss Brrrce."

"Good Clark, good, good." Bruce slowed and took a breath. "Curtains open."

The room curtains were motorized. They ground open slowly, quietly, and an inch of sunlight sliced across Clark's chest and through the fog. "Please, Bruce." Another inch, another. Clark grabbed Bruce's wrist and squeezed. "Careful. Careful."

"Curtains pause." The motor stopped purring. A stripe of sun the width of his hand glowed hot across Clark's skin. Bruce held up the collar control.

Clark took a deep breath. "Please, Bruce."

Click. It wasn't much worse, which was like saying that Bruce stomping his foot during sparring hadn't been _much_ worse than the vicious kick to the knee earlier in that session. The sun kept him up, the collar kept him down, and Bruce just kept fucking him while he whined and twisted with his newfound energy.

"Yes, Bruce, please, I'll be good, I'll be yours, I'll be good . . ."

Bruce arched back, face red, grunting under his breath, coming, coming, coming.

Clark held still, hurting, waiting, hurting, waiting, until Bruce found enough coordination to close the curtains and dial down the collar to a whisper again. He relaxed in relief. "Thnk you."

Bruce kissed his forehead and tousled his hair. They lay together, breathing quietly. Clark moved lazily to bury his nose in Bruce's neck.

"Could go deeper," he said. "More sun, higher setting. Ups and downs."

Bruce rubbed behind his ear soothingly. "Next time. Because I want to be sure there is a next time. I try to keep my things in good working order, so they last."

Clark snorted. "You went through six Batmobiles last year."

"I have more cars." Bruce pulled the collar tight against his windpipe. "I only have one Kryptonian."

Clark hazed out and went slack in a way that had very little to do with the inverse square law. Bruce sat up and pulled Clark's head into his lap. He smoothed his hair, petting methodically. It was so soothing that Clark thought he might doze off, kryptonite and all.

"Are you ready to come out?" Bruce asked.

Clark nodded silently. He wasn't sure if it was true, and he wasn't sure how this part would work, but they couldn't stay curled up in Bruce's bedroom forever.

"Up on your knees, please." With Bruce's help, Clark sat up neatly on the bed. Bruce matched him, same posture, same height, and touched their foreheads together. "Thank you, Clark. You were so good for me."

Click, and then the much larger mechanism of the lock clunked apart. Bruce lifted the collar from his neck and set it aside, along with the control. Clark watched him cautiously. He wasn't quite sure where they stood now, or where he wanted them to.

"Curtains open."

Light slowly filled the room, warming Clark's back, filling him with easy power. Nothing had to be difficult, or frightening, or complicated, the sunlight said. He could do and have anything he reached for. Had he really just — Shame knotted in his chest. It must have shown on his face.

"It's as much as you make of it," Bruce said quietly. "All rumors to the contrary, nothing that happens in my bedroom ends up on Instagram. If you just needed this once. I'm lucky to have been here for it. If any of it was worth an encore . . ." He put on one of his least sincere flirting smiles. "You have my private line."

He was doing the thing where he avoided serious communication about anything other than Crime. That couldn't stand. "How much can I tell Lois?"

Another crooked smile. "As long as you don't tell her I'm a lousy lay, I trust your judgment." He faltered. "As long as . . . As much as she can take good care of. You deserve that, Clark. Only tell people who you can trust to protect it."

Slowly, hesitantly, Clark bent his head and leaned against Bruce. Bruce let out a slow breath and scratched behind his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author:** Hmm, I'm not really feeling like this Bruce voice is entirely in character.  
>  **Bruce:** One of us is the best at everything. Canonically. It's not you. Believe me when I say this is the _tactically optimal_ Clark-topping voice. Now if you'll excuse me, doing improv around an alien's emotional triggers needs my full attention. Batman out.


	2. The Source of Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [[[ Chapter content advisory: Panic attack ]]]

When Clark next came to the manor during the day, he was nervous. Of course he was nervous. What if it had been a fluke? What if he'd imagined how good it had been?

He hadn't imagined the look on Bruce's face when he said he felt safe with a deadly load of kryptonite locked around his throat. He hadn't imagined the sense of peace he'd found on his knees.

"How would you feel about doing that again?" he asked through a casual bite of beef stroganoff. Alfred's cooking was practically an orgasmic experience of its own.

"Absolutely," Bruce said. He didn't make any pretense of not knowing what 'that' was. "I'll insist on some talking first. Do you want to do that here, or on your knees?"

Clark fought the urge to hide under the table. He glanced around. "Alfred will be back for the dishes."

"He's heard worse. The solarium, then. The question stands." Bruce's stare was direct; it set off tingles in Clark's gut.

"Guides on the subject suggest it's a bad idea to mix communication and play." Clark was stalling. He knew he was stalling. He looked down at his plate. Three bites left was not a lot of time.

"It's also a bad idea to fight giant robots. I think we can make our own risk assessments, and I'm willing to chance it if it makes it easier for you to talk."

"Never thought you'd be the one to suggest more talking." Clark took another bite, avoiding Bruce's eyes.

"Never thought you'd suggest all kinds of things, which I won't list at this table. So?"

Clark cleaned his plate without saying any more. Bruce was finished too. He took a deep breath. "Knees, please."

Bruce nodded. "Follow."

The human-paced walk to the bedroom was almost unbearable; Clark's anticipation crawled from his belly all the way up into his throat. Bruce sat on the bed and gestured to the door, which Clark closed.

"Naked. Down. Now." Bruce's voice was calm, level, and utterly uninterested in disagreement. Clark took it as permission to skip the slow version; he was on his knees before his shirt hit the floor, looking up into Bruce's eyes. Bruce ran a hand over his hair and left it resting on his neck. "Thank you. So. Feedback from last time?"

Clark thought carefully before answering. "Last time was amazing."

"Improvements? Calibrations?"

"I . . . really can't think of any. Sorry. You were . . ." Having this conversation on his knees loosened him up, but not enough to make it easy. "You were so good with me. You knew what I wanted better than I did. I honestly don't know how to improve on that."

Bruce nodded. "Great for my ego, not so helpful for the perfectionism. I made some good guesses. You can't count on those. And because I was guessing, I couldn't push as hard. If you want me to take you deeper, I need intel."

Deeper. Clark definitely wanted deeper. He tried to think.

"I'm going to bring the collar, and you're going to sit and think of three things you would like, or like more of." Bruce patted his neck and left.

Clark slowed everything down and thought for a couple of subjective hours, watching the dust motes hang practically motionless in the light. Even this felt intensely revealing. The way they were talking . . . Bruce could be blunt, but he was never this forthright, or this serious and gentle. It demanded absolute honesty in return.

When Bruce came back, he didn't say anything. He took off his shoes, his shirt, and his watch, but kept his slacks on. His chest in the sunlight, furry and pale and scarred, made Clark's mouth water with the desire to bite it. Bruce set the collar in sight on the bed, then sat and watched Clark again.

"I'd like to struggle more," Clark said. His face felt hot; he was probably blushing all the way down to his chest, but he was an adult, and if he wanted to do it, he had better be able to say it. "A real chance to fight and be brought to heel. And . . . I'd like to be touched more. Handled."

He was afraid Bruce would make him elaborate on that one, but Bruce just rested his hand on Clark's shoulder. That helped. The edge of shame had him hard, feeling his pulse in his cock.

"Third, I would like." This was terrifying. "I'd like to find out how much it can hurt before I can't ask for any more. I want to beg you to stop. I want to mean it."

Bruce's hand tightened. "Thank you. I would like that too. Eventually. It won't be today. Choose another."

His only substantial fallback was worse. He waited for the nerve to say it. Bruce waited right back. Finally, Clark said, "I'm not sure it's . . . reasonable."

"If it's not, I'll say no, or more likely not yet. You're allowed to misjudge."

Clark looked down at his bare knees. "I want it to be real."

Bruce stroked his shoulder. "I'm listening."

"I want it to matter. Not just . . . playing around." Clark fought the impulse to adjust the glasses he wasn't wearing, a nervous mannerism that at some point had become actual habit. "I don't want to lie, or fake, or act. If we say I'm yours, that should mean something."

After a pause, Bruce put a hand on either side of his jaw and neck, squeezing him, then kissed the top of his head. The collar control hanging from his wrist rested cool against Clark's shoulder. "Would Lois have something to say about that?" he asked quietly.

"Not all the time. Just here. In the collar."

"Then this is what I would like it to mean, if you agree." Bruce moved him by the jaw to get eye contact. "When you bend your neck for that collar, you're mine until I take it off. You can ask to be let out, and I will let you out, instantly, if you ask. But you don't touch it, you don't remove it unless your safety depends on it. You've given yourself over. You're mine until I give you back."

Clark nodded, but Bruce was still talking. His voice had a raw intensity to it, and his hands were tight on Clark's face.

"I decide what you do, and I decide and enforce the consequences if you refuse. You can complain, bargain, whatever you like. But unless you ask to be let out, I'm within my rights over you." He took a breath. "Do you agree to this?"

"Yes," Clark said instantly. "Yes. Please. That's . . . Yes." He lifted his hands and pressed them over Bruce's. "I agree."

The tension broke. "Okay, then," Bruce said. "Thank you." He dropped his hands. There was something vulnerable and unsteady in his expression.

"I haven't done this before," Clark blurted out. "That's probably obvious. But I thought I should say. I tried once, in college. Fooled around. I dated someone who wanted to see a big hunk on his knees. But I couldn't let her hit me, and she thought . . ." He shook his head. "It couldn't have worked. Too many secrets."

Bruce nodded. "I've fooled around. Both directions. It's good theater. Interesting to figure out what people need on the fly. But even if I had the time, Bruce Wayne isn't allowed to take it seriously. Or to want what I want."

This was an awful lot of talking for Bruce. "Which is?"

"Until recently, I'd have said the dynamics didn't appeal. Too stylized, too close to . . ." Bruce looked away. "I spent a month trying not to think about you waiting for that beating. I can't think about prisoners that way. For any reason."

"You, ah, have my permission to think about that one. I have." Clark shifted, more aware of his erection heavy against his thigh. He hoped Bruce could take it as an endorsement.

"I can't. But thank you. It's fine. You've given me a much better alternative." Bruce brushed his knuckle along Clark's collarbone. "Apparently what I want is a pet Kryptonian of my very own, to torture the shit out of and then kiss it better."

"Well, that's lucky." Clark smiled. "I hear we're a limited resource." People got uncomfortable when he joked about being an endangered species. What was the phrase Bruce had used? He'd liked that phrase. He put his hands behind his back formally. "I give myself over."

Bruce stopped breathing, and his pulse jumped. He reached for the collar and snapped it around Clark's neck with the same quick accuracy he used to handle all his tools. "I accept."

They stared at each other. Clark bowed his head. Bruce started the bedroom curtains moving on their slow grind toward artificial night.

"Real means you consider this exactly as binding as if I'd run it full blast until you couldn't move your hands."

"Yes."

"I'll use it anyway. I want it, and you need it. I'll take good care of you. But that's not what keeps the collar on your neck."

"Yes. Thank you."

The curtains went silent, the room cooler and dark in the human-visible spectrum. Clark heard the extraordinarily subtle sounds of a fabric strap shifting and Bruce's skin gripping the plastic of the remote. "Ask for it."

Clark grabbed his own wrist tightly with the other hand. He wanted to see if he could keep his hands behind his back this time. "Please knock me down, Bruce."

He could not keep his hands behind his back. In his attempt, he managed to fall over, the room tilting and the carpet rising up to slam into his arm and side as he scrabbled helplessly. Why could he never remember how truly awful kryptonite was?

Bruce knelt over him, a hand on the back of his neck, saying . . . something, didn't matter what. Bruce had him. Kryptonite, terrible, so awful. Ow.

Easier, easier, easier, caged in Bruce's arms and his own heavy body instead of desperate for any escape from sensation. They were still on the floor, he learned when Bruce moved him up to the bed. Bruce wasn't talking much. Soft little noises of reassurance, "shh" and "stay right there," nothing that demanded a response or even understanding.

Clark was curled up on his side in soft lamplight, and Bruce was petting him absolutely everywhere. Long strokes down his sides and back, tugs and rubs to his nipples, firm hands along his thighs and ass. Bruce leaned down and took Clark's whole cock in his mouth, rolling it on his tongue.

Clark groaned weakly, because weakly was the only way he could do anything. "Yesss, Brrruce." Bruce stuck two fingers in his mouth; he subsided and let himself be sucked.

After a little while of that Bruce kissed up his body, then nuzzled his face and started grinding their crotches together. Clark sighed in pleasure.

"Call me petty," Bruce said under his breath, "but rubbing off on you like this, when your body's soft and sweet and _mine_ , when you're so limp and relaxed that you're only good for being touched, is really doing it for me."

"Mmmmm." Clark tried to arch into it. Bruce held his hip in place. "Pleeease, Bruce."

Bruce stuck a thumb in his mouth again. Clark sucked at it. "Shh. You get to help later. For now, just relax. I want you soft."

Clark relaxed his mouth, but the thumb was still there, and Bruce was still grinding on him. Clark arched again. Bruce sighed and put him in a firm headlock. Clark reached out his tongue hopefully.

"Hush, Clark. I'm going to help."

Clark heard the click. Oh, oh shit. Ow fuck ow ow ow. Not the full mind-melting knock down, but enough to make him very grateful when it receded, leaving him slack and non-verbal again.

"There we go. Good Clark. Nice and easy. Shh." Bruce went back to grinding and kissing his face for a long, dreamlike time, then returned to licking at his cock, engulfing it easily.

Clark drifted and let him. When Bruce picked up his leg and started rubbing his hole open with two fingers, he just sighed. It felt good.

"I'm not fucking you until later," Bruce said. "But I keep remembering what a beautifully easy fuck you are when you're like this. Just right. So if I lube you up now, I can skip that step later."

"Mmm-hmmmm." Clark arched once, then subsided.

"Good Clark." Bruce added more stretch, more, far faster than a human could take. It felt like Bruce maybe had everything but the thumb in and was twisting back and forth, pressing his knuckles to reach deeper.

"Hmmm?" Clark reached down, curious.

Bruce pulled Clark's hand away gently. "You're fine, Clark. Don't worry. You'll get there."

"Where?"

"You were raised on a farm, Clark." Bruce sounded amused. "I'm sure you've heard what the elbow-length gloves are for."

"Oh. Oh, wow." That was a whole lot of handling. Haha. Handling.

"Oh, wow indeed." Bruce petted his face with his free hand. "Just relax. Almost there. You're being so good for me."

"Mm-hmm." Clark was rolled a little further toward his front as Bruce adjusted the angle and pushed his whole hand into Clark's ass up to the wrist. The stretch was impossibly huge as Bruce's knuckles slid in. Not painful. Just amazing. Different. Huge, and reaching deeper.

Clark drooled on the bed, his face contorting into odd yawning shapes as he groaned. Even if he had more brains, the feel of it was just . . . It was past stimulation and out the other side. No question of anything as subtle as _aim_ ; Bruce was pressing hard in every possible direction at once. Clark was just a thin skin of nerves and organs, rubbed to and fro with every little shift of a hand the size of his entire body.

"Good Clark. Good job letting me take care of it. I've got you. You feel so good on me." Bruce leaned down and licked Clark's cock again, with Clark's body locked in place, impaled on his fist.

"Ohhhhhhhh." The collar was no longer snug against his neck. It wasn't his to adjust, but he was getting clearer. And more thoughtful about why he usually had to be so cautious even about getting fucked unless he'd relaxed thoroughly first. He had never hurt anyone, but he killed Lois's favorite strap-on when he tried to rush it once, and the apology oral had gone on for weeks. No complaints there, but . . . "Gotta be careful. If —"

The collar clicked. Clark whimpered, helpless, miserable, nauseous, trapped, ow . . . He collapsed gratefully, gasping.

"Shhh. Trust me. I have incredibly detailed information on your strength right now. Far more than you do. If it goes anywhere close to too much, I can make you safe, just like that, just that fast. There are times I'll ask you for more feedback. This is not one of them. You're mine, and you're exactly where I want you. Shhhhh."

Bruce pushed his arm in just a little deeper, worked his mouth around Clark's cock _and_ balls all at once, and started thrusting, barely. So strange, like the polar opposite of kryptonite, just as overwhelming but safe, warm, his world expanding instead of contracting.

Clark groaned and paid attention to how he felt. Specifically, how he could feel without thrashing around or flexing too much. How to stay tame, with his body stretched around the fist and forearm of a man who could climb brick walls with his bare hands. Getting sucked by, well, Bruce Wayne, who had more experience on the subject than Clark could dream of acquiring in his lifetime.

He writhed slowly, moaning, feeling, wanting. It was barely even about him. It was all about him, of course. His body, helpless and harmless and impotent in Bruce's control. His responses for Bruce to enjoy.

"Ohhhhhh," he whispered without thinking. "'sgood."

He tensed a little, but Bruce just sucked harder, humming into Clark's crotch. That was okay, apparently. As was a slow full-body crunch and flex. When he stretched out his top leg too emphatically, Bruce pressed on the muscles of his butt with a patient hand; he relaxed and got another hum of approval.

Bruce offered him a hand to grab. It wasn't to judge his strength; that had been made painfully clear. It was a kindness to give Clark something to cling to, a tiny connection he controlled. He clung. "Thanks."

He swam in slow motion for a while, twisting and squirming on Bruce's thrusting arm. His head was getting dangerously clear. He was allowed to bargain. "I'd rather not hurt again, please," he said quietly. "This is nice. Wanna be good."

Bruce lifted his head. "You are so good. Thank you for asking nicely. You're right, I want you to keep feeling good for now."

He pulled out slowly. Clark yowled and squirmed, making noises he didn't know he had in him as Bruce's knuckles dragged through his enormously stretched asshole again. The cool air on him when Bruce left him empty felt bizarre.

"Easy. Easy. Good Clark. You took it so well for me." Bruce kissed his forehead. "Now shh, relax here. I'm not going far. You can listen, I'll be right over there."

He went and washed his hands in the en suite. Clark listened desperately, digging his fingers into the sheets. It was silly, but a dozen paces away was the furthest Bruce had ever been from him while he was this helpless. He whimpered under his breath.

"Shh, I'm back. You're safe. Good Clark. So good for me." Bruce rubbed his shoulders and back. Then he pulled him up and in to lie cradled against Bruce's chest.

Clark leaned into it. There was a nipple in reach. He bit it and worried it softly with a slow head wobble. Bruce's chest smelled great, especially when he was horny, which he very definitely was.

"Mmm. Nice." Bruce squeezed him closer. Clark gnawed on his chest in big friendly mouthfuls while Bruce talked to him. "I got sidetracked there. I only meant to lube you up for later. But your body just kept giving and, well. I find it hard to resist taking absolutely everything you give me."

"No need to resist," Clark said through a bite of hairy pectoral muscle.

"I know. So I didn't. There's just so much of you to explore. I may get distracted a lot."

"Oh nooo, not that."

"How's my collar feeling?"

Clark thought about it. "Sick. It doesn't stop hurting, ever. But it's not s'posed to. Keeps me down for you."

"God, Clark." Bruce kissed him for a long time.

Clark had enough energy to kiss back enthusiastically, if a little fuzzily. "I'm good." It wasn't bragging, just a simple statement of fact that felt good to say.

"You are so good, and so tame. And that's not the collar, that's my good Clark." He rubbed his fingers across Clark's lips to let him lick. "Since I know I can trust you to keep your collar on, I might see how you take to some other structure. As much fun as it is, I don't _always_ want you hurting for me. Sometimes I might want more focus."

"Mmm." Clark was mostly listening and partly licking all traces of salt off of Bruce's fingers. The focus concern was valid.

"Some pets," Bruce said carefully, "respond well to crating. A place they can go, that's just theirs, that feels safe and isn't big enough to get in trouble."

Clark stopped licking. He was afraid, and fear made the collar come into the foreground, instead of an annoying distraction from pleasure. "You mean the cell," he said.

"Yes and no." Bruce settled his hand as a warm pressure on Clark's chest. "Crates aren't effective if they're used as a punishment, or if the pet feels trapped there. He has to be able to go in and out, learn it's okay, get toys and treats there. The crate has to feel like being cared for. Then that feeling can last when he needs it, even if the door stays closed for a while. It's not a trap, it's a territory."

Clark thought about it. He realized he was shaking. He curled up into Bruce's arms as tightly as he could. Bruce held him, petting his head.

"If it doesn't work, it doesn't work. You can't force a feeling of safety. But a lot of pets will seek out their crates, if the world gets too loud or they just need a break. I thought you might enjoy having a place for that. If the cell always makes you think of when I trapped you, it's not the right place. But you asked to wear the collar again. You made it something different. So if you wanted to try a space like that, there or somewhere else, you should let me know."

Clark nodded a little, curling down even harder. This was not a place for being polite or hiding his reactions.

"You're my good Clark." Bruce squeezed his head. "You don't have to. I just want you to feel safe."

"And you want me to lock myself in if I — If I think I —" It felt like he couldn't breathe.

"I want you to have every tool, every support I can offer you. I know how important it is to you to be good. If you want help with that tool, we can talk about it later. But I think that's enough of that for now. No more today." He pulled back on the collar, pressing it hard against Clark's throat, making him hazy.

Clark fought for air, which was ridiculous. He didn't need air, but he suddenly had a panicked need to _breathe_. He fought desperately, hopelessly, with as much strength as he could find before it all ran out.

"Okay, no." Bruce let go of the collar, flipped Clark to his belly, and restrained him efficiently, holding him motionless as he thrashed and twisted. "Clark." His voice was low and sharp with command. "Listen to me. You're safe. You are safe with me. Do you want the collar off?"

Clark froze. He shook his head once. He breathed hard. He did not move.

"Be sure, Clark. I want to have you again. It is more important to have you again than to have you for even one more minute today if you're not willing. Clear?"

Clark nodded. He shivered under Bruce's hands.

Bruce took a slow breath. "This is not a punishment. Do you understand?"

"This is not a punishment," Clark whispered.

Bruce thumbed the control without letting him go. The collar clicked. Clark whimpered and braced himself. Nothing. The thread of pain faded to nothing.

"This is not a punishment," Bruce repeated. "I know you can take it for me, and you will. Later. But right now I need you at full strength. Curtains open."

Clark gasped at the warmth, the surge of power flooding into him. Bruce was wrapped around him in a restraint position, which was increasingly meaningless as Clark could have just shaken him off. Flung him against the wall. Flung him _through_ the wall. Bruce was still on him, trusting him to hold still. Clark held still. His breathing settled. He could get out any time he wanted.

He could get out of anything except the collar, because that wasn't about strength.

He found his calm. "I'd like to sit up, please," he said.

Bruce let him up. Bruce was pale, sweating, heart racing. Afraid of him, afraid for him, almost certainly some proportion of both.

Clark got to his knees and bowed his head. "I'm sorry I scared you. I feel better now. That was a good call. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Bruce didn't touch him yet. Bruce was still afraid of what he would do.

Clark bowed his head further and put his hands behind his back to show that he was safe. "Please knock me down again, Bruce."

"In a minute." Bruce put a hand on the back of his neck, though. This was hopefully salvageable. "I need to understand what happened."

"The obvious, I guess. It's still a sore spot."

"A sore spot," Bruce repeated wearily. "Yes, that's one way to describe it."

"I'm sorry."

"You're — Clark." His voice had pained, jagged edges.

Had he hurt Bruce and not noticed? He tried to shrink down even smaller. "Please tell me how I can fix it."

Bruce got in front of him, grabbing his shoulders. "Clark, look at me."

Clark looked up cautiously.

"It's not your job to _fix_ the fact that I spent 20 hours trying to break you." Bruce looked grim and furious. "Or that I risked whatever this is by pushing too fast. The fact that you'll speak to me at all, that you find _any_ of this . . . comforting. That you want me. I don't understand you, but I am doing my damnedest to live up to you. And probably failing."

Oh. This was a Bruce he knew how to deal with. He looked at his friend sadly. "You're one of the best people I know, Bruce. Now will you please knock me down so we can get right to kissing it better? Because, I'm not sure if it's possible to say this emphatically enough, kryptonite hurts like everliving fuck. I'd like to get that part over with, please."

Bruce stared at him, mouth twitching, then started laughing breathlessly, almost silently. He put an arm around Clark and shook his head. "All right, Clark. You're a terrible judge of character, but at the moment you're _my_ terrible judge of character, so let's get you back on something less complicated. I think I'll try the slow way this time."

Clark had trouble forming an opinion on whether he preferred the slow way or the fast way. But Bruce's enjoyment of lying on Clark's back while Clark tugged at the collar and sobbed into the mattress, agonizingly conscious of his slowly draining strength, suggested that Bruce would be choosing the slow way again sometime soon.


	3. No Good at All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter content advisory: Playing somewhat harder this chapter. Detailed list of kink elements in endnote. ] 

Clark waited on his knees, silently willing Bruce to hurry up. They'd pushed back their date for weeks due to various attempts to overthrow the earth or portions thereof, and if he had to smile and make nice with one more petty, xenophobic politician before the end of the month, he might do something he would regret. He desperately needed to be knocked down until the world narrowed to the safe, dreamlike cocoon of Bruce's bedroom.

Bruce closed the collar slowly around his neck until it latched. Far too slowly. He was drawing it out. It wouldn't matter soon. Clark waited motionlessly, which was almost like patiently.

"You asked once," Bruce said, "to be hurt until you begged me to stop."

Clark felt wild energy flex through him at the thought. Smart of Bruce to wait until they both really needed it. "Yes. Please."

"You didn't say what you want me to do when you beg. You should clarify." Bruce stared him down.

That was more complicated than Clark had realized, when he gave it more thought. "I would like . . . ‘Please stop’ means please stop _soon_. I won't beg until I mean it, just . . . There's a buffer."

Bruce nodded.

"And if it's really too far, ‘lemme out’ always means lemme out."

"Perfect. Thank you." Bruce kissed his head. "We'll be going downstairs now. That means passing some sun on the way. If you want to be good, you can walk at heel with me."

Clark was supposed to want to be good. Clark just wanted to be knocked the fuck down until he couldn't think, but he couldn't say it. 

He imagined following into the halls tamely and then running away out of spite. Making Bruce use the collar out there. He'd still have to control himself, move slowly enough that Bruce could catch him, _behave_. Vases smashed and walls broken, either on purpose or when he came crashing down. No relief, and too much damage.

He sat silently.

"I see. Thank you. I'll take care of it." Bruce ruffled his hair, then held up the remote formally and pressed a button.

Clark went down, down, down, down in a haze of agony. Kryptonite was the worst feeling in the world, but it was still a change from the itching temptation to lash out at everyone and everything. Bruce's hand firm on his neck. Bruce taking care of it. Bruce.

Bruce's hands positioning him. Laid out flat and straight. Floor? It felt like floor. Rolled over and over. Blanket on his face and snug around his arms. Bruce was making a blanket burrito. Okay. Not his problem. Soft. Dark.

Bruce wrapped something like a strap around his elbows and another around his knees, pulling it tight. Clark was hoisted over Bruce's shoulder like a rolled carpet, which had to look absurd. He tried to remember if anyone else was here; he didn't think he had heard anyone in the house, but he hadn't really listened for it and his mind was fuzzy. 

Bruce's problem, not his.

He imagined the sunlit hallway as Bruce hauled him away. Clark's head swung and swayed against Bruce's back with every step. His crotch bounced on Bruce's shoulder. Polished wood. Tasteful runner rugs. Next was the turn left down the big staircase . . . They turned right.

Bruce lowered him, settling him more or less on his butt by Bruce's feet. "It's a tight squeeze through here." The strap around his torso tugged, and he moved easily with a faint rattle of wheels. Huh. He was wheeled along behind Bruce, facing backward, his heels dragging on the ground. The echoes did seem closer. If it was narrow enough that Bruce couldn't carry him, could he . . . ? Bruce had him. Wouldn't hurt to try.

Clark flung himself sideways, pushing off with his feet. Yep, his shoulder and head immediately bumped a wall. He didn't even fall off his platform. Bruce grabbed him and righted him, then pulled him up more directly by the strap, fingers digging into his back. Clark held still. Collar was still trickling poison, but pretty low on his neck. He could test again when Bruce was busy moving him.

Bruce squeezed his bicep through the blanket. "Yeah? Okay. We'll be downstairs soon."

That hallway didn't last much longer. More stairs over Bruce's shoulder, then more dragging. He waited a few paces into the new hallway, then fought for all he was worth, which was just some unproductive squirming and kicking his feet. He didn't even touch the walls.

"I know. I know." Bruce laughed quietly and kept moving at the same pace. "You'll be okay. You won't like it, but you'll be okay." He sounded more patronizing than usual. It was irritating. It was . . . It was the voice for talking to a yowling cat stuffed into a carrier and complaining about being put in the car. The vet trip voice.

Clark fought harder. Bruce made sweet little shushing noises at him. Clark growled under his breath.

They came out into what sounded like a larger space briefly, then another long narrow, then a larger space with carpet. Clark's head was clearing and he could really kick. He managed to lift himself off the platform and land on the floor. Bruce stopped and crouched to hold him. "Okay. It's okay. Let's get you settled down."

The click of the collar was a welcome misery, something he could hate without consequence. When it faded, Bruce hauled his boneless body over a shoulder again. A lurching sensation added to his vertigo. Elevator. Down, down, down.

Caaaaave. If he'd had the energy for speech, he'd have hooted to hear the echo. He did not. He didn't think about much of anything until he felt the straps loosen. Suddenly he was spinning, rolling across the floor as the blanket spilled him out.

He came to rest with his limbs every which way and his cheek and chest stuck to the mats of the gym. Slow. Warm. Red light.

They hadn't been training lately, either. Too busy, too many injuries, and Bruce couldn't bring himself to trust knowledge of their training times to even one other person. As if Alfred didn't know. Maybe Alfred could kick his ass the next time Bruce was laid up. Clark would definitely lose a fight with Alfred.

Bruce's hand on his shoulder blades. Right. Collar time. Bruce was going to hurt him. That would be easier under red light. Kryptonite pain didn't lend itself to safeword use. With effort, Clark rolled to his side.

Bruce smiled down at him. "There you are."

"Mmm." Clark gave the room a slow look around. "We could . . ." Thoughts were fuzzy. It was important, though. "If we're doing lamps. Crate. Could go to my crate."

Bruce petted his hair. "Not now. Here's good."

Cripes' sake, Bruce. They didn't get that many dates. It had never seemed like the right time to deal with it. Now it did, they were probably a whole thirty paces away, and Bruce for once in his life didn't want to multitask. "Can do it. Should at least go see. Meet my crate. Say hi."

"No. This is not a crate activity."

Clark glared. "I can do it."

"No, you can't." Bruce rubbed his neck, making his head wobble. "Because we're staying here."

"Bruce, I can handle it, and I want to. Come on."

Bruce grabbed a fistful of his hair and shoved him to lie on his belly. "You've shared your opinion." A ripping sound and a sticky feeling on his back was a biometric patch applied to the spot he could never reach by himself. "It's my responsibility to give you what you need, not what you think sounds more exciting. Today, that's hurting you. Here. Complaining is optional." He rested a hand on the patch. In a gentler voice, he said, "I'm stripping off the rest of your invulnerability now. I'll make it quick."

Ow.

When Clark could open his eyes again, he was on his back. Bruce had undressed to black boxer-briefs and was shining a single yellow sun lamp on him while watching a monitor. He switched it off and set it aside. "There you are."

Clark was wobbly as a foal, but the collar didn't hurt anymore. He wrapped himself around Bruce's legs.

"That's right." Bruce stroked the length of his spine. "Good Clark." He reached to one side, then held down Clark's head and stuck a cotton swab in his ear.

Clark yelped. "Seriously? This is what you're doing?"

"Yes. As long as we're here." Bruce pulled on a glove, jammed his fingers into Clark's mouth to grab his tongue, and took three cheek swabs in a row. Attempts to bite were ineffective.

"Seriously."

"Are you asking to be let out?"

Clark glowered. Bruce watched him calmly. Clark rolled away and covered his head with his arms.

"When you're responsible for your own care again, you can tell me if you want these incinerated. In the meantime . . ."

A sharp pain stabbed the pad of Clark's thumb. "Ow!"

"Almost done." Bruce wiped something against the sore thumb a few times and squeezed it, intensifying the dull, throbbing ache, then wrapped a plastic bandage around it. "There. All done."

Clark yanked his hand back as soon as Bruce's grip loosened. His thumb had a picture of Spider-Man on it. "Seriously."

"None of this is to be cruel," Bruce said from behind him. A hand settled on his neck. "Very little of it is to be petty. You need to learn that you can trust me to handle you. This is a chance to learn that."

Clark didn't say anything. He ducked his head and felt petty.

"Now. Sting or thud?"

"Huh?" He knew the jargon, he was just thinking so slowly.

"Sting" — Bruce flicked his nipple with a sharp fingernail — "or thud." He landed a blade-hand strike on Clark's thigh and let it sink in.

Clark thought, in his deeply limited experience, that a mix would be best, but participating in his own pain galled him when Bruce was being such a dick. "You're asking me? I'm not _responsible_."

Bruce pulled him in for a hug. Clark bit Bruce's soft inner arm and tried an escape move they'd practiced together. It got him nowhere, of course, except flattened with his face on the mat and a joint lock putting strain on everything from his wrist to his shoulder. Bruce straddled his thighs, weighing him down immovably.

"You really needed this today, huh." Bruce petted his hair, pinning his head down.

"Don't baby-talk me."

Instead of answering, Bruce released his head and slapped his ass. Hard.

Clark gasped. His eyes stung with tears. That would bruise, probably. If they went long enough, he would see the handprint starting to turn purple.

"You got it." Bruce spanked him until he screamed, then a few more.

"Shoulder. Shoulder," Clark gasped out, unable to stop wrenching on his own joints. Bruce eased the hold.

This was new. It wasn't like fighting, or even like that first terrible beating where the entire point was to hurt him. And it was, thankfully, absolutely nothing like kryptonite.

Clark knew all the words, had witnessed the physiological reactions a few times. Warm up. Endorphins. Processing pain, or channeling it. Thud, sting, pinch, bruises, welts, rope burn.

Euphoria, eventually. Hopefully. If he could just stop fighting. Pain was just so shockingly _painful_.

He was supposed to breathe more. He tried. He'd practiced, when training got bad, with Bruce's hand on his back and voice in his ear. Inhale. Deep as you can. Slow exhale. Slower than that. Come on. He could do this. His lungs felt tight. Bruce rubbed his bruised flanks gently, or at least it was probably gently, because it still hurt like hell but Clark could breathe at the same time.

"Maybe a little baby-talk," he muttered into the mat.

Bruce kissed the top of his spine, just below the collar. "You're doing great. More?"

"Slower. Please."

Clark breathed in a slower, steadier rhythm. Bruce matched him, waiting until the beginning of each exhale before slapping his back, squeezing his arm, digging knuckles into a bruise. Bearable things. They sometimes forced the air out of him, but he was already heading that direction so it was okay.

"You're getting it. Good job." Bruce leaned and stroked down the side of Clark's shin on the next one. It felt hot and cold and _ow_ , and Clark bellowed and kicked. "That's right. Want to try some sting?"

"Nnn."

On the next breath, Bruce raked his nails hard down Clark's sides, which was half pain and half a convulsive laugh and a frantic attempt to hide his sides. Hell of a way to learn he was ticklish.

Bruce paused. "More of that?"

"Try pinching."

It turned out Clark despised pinching, but he despised it in a relatively bearable way, and his attempts to swat Bruce's hands away made a good excuse to pin his wrists together above his head. That helped. Everything calmed further down. Clark started laughing again.

Oh. Euphoria. Pretty great.

Bruce leaned over to kiss his ear. "I'm going to push now. How do you want it?"

It was going to hurt more. More than he could stand. His body could remember, a little, what that meant now. It frightened him. Clark shook his head, at a loss for words.

"It's going to happen, Clark. Unless you ask to be done for the day."

He squeezed his eyes closed and held still.

Bruce sat up, but kept his wrists pinned.

"Thud," Clark said quickly.

"Good Clark." Bruce brought the side of his hand down heavily, right behind Clark's shoulder blade.

The thump rocked him, and his lungs ached with the sudden pressure shift. He hadn't known his lungs could hurt. He breathed out before the matching blow on the other side, then held the exhale for a half dozen more. It was steady, predictable. 

He could do this.

He went dizzy when he finally took a breath again. Head rush. Like the moment of relief right after kryptonite. He almost laughed again at the first solid punch to his glutes, before the rest of the pain caught up with him and all he could do was thrash and make noise.

There was struggling because he wanted to, and then there was struggling because he couldn't not struggle. He would have called the latter 'unbearable,' but he was apparently bearing it, because he had a way to stop it and he wasn't stopping it. It was his choice. He was choosing.

Bruce squeezed big lumps of bruising deep into his shoulder and rib muscles.

His body was telling him nonsense. Pain sizzling from one place to another, pain in places that didn't exist or didn't have nerves. His head hurt, why did his head hurt, why did his _bones_ hurt. Everything was hilarious with an increasing edge of terror.

Bruce slapped his back, over and over.

He shouted as loud as he could, because if he was busy screaming then he wasn't saying he was done. Bruce's hand paused in its rhythm. Clark snarled, furious. Bruce didn't hesitate again, no matter how much noise Clark made.

Clark's wrists ached in Bruce's grip. His throat scratched every time he yelled. He had no idea how he was still going when the pain was bigger than his whole body, bigger than he could even begin to cope with, big as the world.

Bruce set his hands down on Clark's arms and his knees down on the backs of Clark's thighs, and he _leaned_.

Clark couldn't, he wouldn't, he wouldn't call a halt. He could take it. This he could control, this one thing. He could choose not to make it stop.

When that changed, it was like flipping a switch. He did not feel a choice, any more than he'd felt a choice when his body tried to dodge the blows. It was just too much, and the knowledge was a terrible betrayal. He couldn't beat this, any more than he could beat a world full of selfish, destructive assholes. 

It hurt.

"Stop, stop, stop, please, Bruce, enough, ah!"

Bruce leaned harder. Clark screamed and sobbed, helpless even to keep begging.

He was confused for a split-second when Bruce lifted the overwhelming pressure from his limbs and gathered him in. Clark shuddered against him, bawling and dripping from his whole face.

Catharsis. That was a word.

Slowly, slowly, he settled. Bruce rocked him and hummed wordlessly into his hair. He stayed there, sniffling, until the shakes and aches demanded that he change position. He was utterly, utterly worn out. He wiped his nose ineffectually on Bruce's arm.

"Want a cold cloth?"

He just nodded. While Bruce stepped away to fetch it, he curled up on his side. Bruce held out the washcloth to let him take it, but Clark lifted his face in a silent request.

Bruce wiped his eyes, his forehead, his cheekbones, his mouth and chin. He helped him blow his nose, and used his fingers to shape Clark's sweaty hair into some semblance of order. He let him sip from a water bottle. Then he folded the cloth over and used the other side to soothe the bruises. Clark felt his skin prickle as the fresh, cool areas were exposed to the air again. He looked. Goosebumps. Neat.

"You see why the crate wouldn't have been a good idea before." Bruce scritched his scalp. "But if you want to go say hi now, it's up to you."

Clark thought about it. His thoughts were slow, clear, calm. He didn't need to squirm anymore. He didn't need to challenge everything at once. He was tired. Would it be a bad idea? He prodded at it. No particular attachment either way.

"Yeah," he said. He cleared his aching throat. "Let's go say hi."

Bruce helped him stand, wrapped the blanket around him in an approximation of a cloak, and slipped into a light silky robe himself. Clark had been right; they headed further along the same tunnel. He saw the red glow ahead, and he hesitated.

"It's up to you." Bruce stood back a few inches, just barely leaving his hand on Clark's arm.

The heavy outer door stood open. Clark walked through it to find a kind of . . . off-stage area. No sleek paneling, just an oddly shaped corner of cave sealed off by a wall of concrete and steel plating. Open doors to the left and right: the cell and the narrow observation hallway Bruce had watched him from. Between them, the hind end of the food delivery slot. A control panel and a darkened video screen above the delivery airlock. The cave floor was cold under his bare feet, but the air was warm. He went to the observation side first. He'd never seen it from that direction.

The space was barely recognizable. At least eight fuzzy blankets were involved. A pile of pillows surrounded an enormous bean bag on the floor. Parked in the bean bag was an unlicensed Batman stuffed toy the size of a large toddler. He looked at the toy and then at Bruce, who had a studiously flat expression.

"In case I needed something to hug?"

Bruce shrugged. Clark walked into the cell — crate — cell — _crate_. Into his crate, tugging Bruce along with him by the sleeve. They left the door open.

He prodded the bean bag with his foot, then sat down in it, using Bruce to support himself so he wouldn't land too hard on his bruised butt. He accidentally sat on the toy.

It shifted under him and made a recorded "Rrrh!" noise. He startled, then laughed. It sounded enough like Bruce; it had probably been clipped from news footage, one of the fights that was too public to wipe away all the recordings.

He rolled off and hugged it experimentally. It said, "Hahh!" Definitely Bruce. He hugged it a few more times until he'd verified it made five different Action Batman noises in a fixed order. Loopy on endorphins, this was hilarious. He grinned up at Bruce, whose expression relaxed.

"Thanks." Clark squeezed it again, getting an 'Oof.' "I'm sure I'll manage to chew one of its ears off when you're not looking."

"It's yours, you can do it while I am looking. I won't stop you." Bruce crouched beside him and petted his hair.

"Not nearly as fun." He pulled Bruce onto the bean bag with him for more thorough petting.

Bruce kicked his underwear off and tossed it through the doorway with his toes, in a move that really shouldn't have worked. "Noted." He rubbed the bruises on Clark's arms. "In that case, I'll prevent you from destroying your toys if I can catch you at it."

Clark shifted around, trying to find a position that let him keep cuddling but didn't put weight on his bruises. No luck so far. He rolled to his belly and found himself staring at the spot where he had waited on his knees, unsure if Bruce would let him live. He closed his eyes, feeling his fresh, throbbing bruises, and waited to feel safe again.

He rubbed his head against Bruce's hand to encourage more touch. He thought about lying safe in his own bed after he'd survived, jerking off to the memory. He thought about how he'd filled in the fantasy around the edges. He took a deep breath. "Can I suck you in here?"

"That's definitely a treat." Bruce sounded pleased. He shifted, trying to maneuver further into the bean bag.

"No. With you standing. Maybe, uh." The same spot would be too much. Clark pointed to the back wall between the bed and the open door. "Over there."

"Sure," Bruce said slowly. "But let's get something under your knees, huh? Hard floor's no fun."

"So I hear."

Clark waited in his nest while Bruce laid out a blanket and pillow for Clark but kept his own feet on the concrete floor. Then Bruce let his robe hang open and patted his thigh in summons.

Clark stood, walked up nose to nose with Bruce, then got down to his knees. He rested his forehead against Bruce's naked crotch and put his hands behind his back.

"Mmmm. If it's like that, I have something to add." Bruce pulled the flimsy belt of his robe free and leaned to wrap it around Clark's wrists.

"I'll stay!"

"I know you will. And you could get out of that without much effort, so be gentle with it. But I can see you, reflected in the glass." Bruce tipped Clark up by the chin to look at his face, then looked out at the observation wall. "I want to watch what that bow around your wrists does to your shoulder muscles when I choke you on my cock."

Clark twisted to look over his shoulder. He stared in awe. The faint, dark reflection smudged out the details that would let him recognize himself. He saw an impressively muscled man on his knees. Narrow ass and broad, straining shoulders, collar gleaming, silk trailing from his bound wrists and between his sculpted glutes. Another man, just as muscular, stood over him, stroking his own erection slowly, waiting. The tableau was a pornographic dream. Just as he thought that, the man on his knees shuddered with desire and arched his back further.

Bruce took him by the hair and drew him back into position. "Now, Clark. You were brave and you worked hard today. Thank you. You want your treat?"

Clark nodded and licked his lips. "Please, Bruce."

"Good Clark." Bruce gripped Clark's hair in both hands and brought his mouth just barely within reach.

Clark reached with his tongue and lips, slurping greedily until he managed to get a firm hold on the head of Bruce's cock. Then Bruce pulled him in until he choked. Out a little and in again, right on the edge of what he could manage. Having a gag reflex was just _weird_.

"You're fun like this," Bruce said. "You're fun a lot of ways, but this, mm."

Clark tugged to choke himself harder.

"Yeah? Want me to use that big handsome face?"

"Mmm!" Clark sucked emphatically.

"Well, since you've been so good."

Bruce fucked his mouth hard and fast, using him selfishly. He pulled Clark's hair hard enough to hurt, taking absolute control of his head. Clark gasped for air whenever Bruce gave him a chance, and tried to suck, but mostly just did his best to keep his teeth out of the way and his wrists tame in their silk bow.

One hand reached to draw the collar up against his Adam's apple. Clark groaned. His legs shook. His aches ached. He bucked his hips up, wishing desperately for something he could rub off against. Bruce stood over him, strong hands tugging on his hair, using him.

After just a couple of minutes, Bruce held Clark's head still and pounded him with quick, shallow strokes. "So good. So good for me." He pulled back as soon as he started coming, so it all landed directly on Clark's tongue, salty and bitter.

Bruce let Clark lap at his crotch until he was licked clean, then untied the bow and dragged them back down into the bean bag. Clark collapsed in relief. He wanted it, he wanted all of it, but most of his body was whining for sleep.

He blinked up at Bruce. "Is there time for a nap? Here?"

Bruce smiled at him. "Yeah." He dug in the blanket heap to produce a bright red one. He threw it over them both. The texture was impossibly soft microfiber; with his senses dulled, Clark couldn't feel the usual minute scratches and snags, just an expanse of light fluffy warmth.

Clark snuggled into it with a happy sigh, then reached around, searching for the wayward toy. Bruce found it for him. Clark nestled down further. He jammed his elbow against the toy.

"Hahh!"

Bruce tried to adjust the toy so they could relax without setting it off. Clark growled and pulled it back to where he wanted it.

"Oof!"

Bruce sighed in annoyance, but didn't try again and didn't stop petting him.

"Nngh!"

"Aargh!"

"Rrrh!"

"Hahh!"

...

"Oof!"

... ... 

"Nngh!"

... ... ...

"Aargh!"

... ... ... ... ...

Clark fell asleep with Bruce rubbing his ear, hand heavy on his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Contents include: brief medical play including an unspecified sharp requiring a bandaid, soft bondage, uncooperative submission, struggling verging on consensual non-consent, non-kryptonite pain play, deliberately playing until safeword, addressing prior trauma. Atmosphere is still supportive and kind. ]
> 
> Teleport back to top note
> 
> Chapter beta by [cattyk8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattyk8/pseuds/cattyk8) and an anon, to its great improvement.
> 
> The Kryptonite Collar series isn't written in strict order, since the string of dates in this work meanders over a longer timeline and develops past other series entries. If you want to read them in something more like chronological order, I recommend [Not Just for Christmas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24060514) ( _not_ a holiday fic) and then [A Magnificent Air of Authority](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24061900) between this and the next chapter.


	4. Invisible to the Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter content advisory: sensory deprivation. ]

"Clark," Bruce said, "will you trust me?"

Clark would have laughed, if he hadn't been so far down. "Little late," he mumbled. He was enjoying the early flattened moments after the knockdown, letting his body settle and his mind coalesce from kryptonite shatter into lazy ease.

"This might push that." Bruce's voice was firm, the tone Clark had come to think of as _handler_. "I need you to tell me if it's too much. I won't force this."

Clark tried to focus. He nodded and opened his eyes.

Bruce held up a soft shape, dark fabric, and slowly wrapped it around Clark's head, over his eyes. Clark gasped. Lead. It was a flexible layer of lead, like dentists' smocks. The fabric was velour, snuggling his face, and the only attachment was velcro, fitting together with an audible scratchy ripple. He wasn't trying to peek, but it was darker, he could tell.

He was blinded. He shivered. He reached to pluck at Bruce's skin; his arms were still too heavy for more. Bruce pulled him into a hug. "How's that?"

"Dark," Clark whispered.

"Acceptable?"

"Yes."

"There's more," Bruce said. "If you want it."

Clark's insides twisted in pleasant terror. Would Bruce gag him? "Yes."

Bruce kept a hand on him, but reached far away on the bed. He came back with something bulky that he slipped over Clark's hand like a mitten and strapped tightly around his wrist.

Memory foam expanded around his fingers, pressing softly no matter how he wiggled them. There was no separate space for his thumb. The mitt curved, making his fingers and thumb curl around something solid. Bruce did the other hand.

Clark couldn't _touch_. He could be touched, but the loss of fingertips felt like as profound a change as the darkness. He trembled.

Bruce petted his hair and adjusted the collar to let his head clear more. "How's that."

"Strange. 'Sokay." Clark felt like he was floating, except without the control.

"You can squeeze those grips as hard as you want. There are pressure sensors."

Ha. Of course there were. Clark squeezed. It felt steadying, something to hang onto, but nothing like touching.

Bruce pulled similar foam-lined slippers over his feet. Toes and soles of feet were so sensitive. Clark didn't realize how much information they sent him until it was replaced by steady, clinging pressure.

He made a little noise in his throat and reached for Bruce with his slowly increasing strength. Bruce was solid. Bruce had fingers that stroked his skin and lips that kissed him, and he kept Clark from slipping away to nothing.

"There's one more," Bruce said softly, "but only if you feel safe."

Clark imagined being muzzled, unable to ask for help. It was too much. "Not mouth," he whispered. He burrowed his head against Bruce's chest.

"Not mouth. Thank you for setting a limit. But the last one's not mouth." Bruce rubbed a thumb against his earlobe and up the curve of cartilage, teasing under the blindfold and back down again.

It took Clark a moment to realize that wasn't random petting, but Bruce giving a signal. Asking permission without forcing him into the position of saying no. That was kind.

Had Bruce found a way to safely deafen him? What would that even mean? Would it hurt? He was allowed to ask questions, but he found he didn't want to. He wanted to trust.

"You'll stay?"

"I'll stay. I'll be right here with you. I'll take good care of you. You're safe."

Clark melted into his voice, his arms, his smell. "One more," he said.

"Thank you. Good Clark."

Bruce inched the blindfold up and pressed something into Clark's ear canal, soft again but with a stiff core. Something cold and heavy molded around his outer ear, pressed down by a hard outer shell. Then Bruce tucked the blindfold down around it; the fabric tightened against his face to accommodate the added width. Other side.

His hearing was pretty shot under the kryptonite, barely reaching as far as the manor and the immediate grounds. He tried to pay attention only to the room, of course, but there were small distractions. Rattles and clicks of equipment, a phone conversation, someone eating cereal, squirrels fighting over a good tree. The thick gel muffled it a little already.

The headphones came on with a slight tremor where the outer casings met his skull; he heard the soft, grating whisper of noise cancellation. Even the best algorithms could only guess based on the beat before, so there was the sonic equivalent of an aftertaste. Quieter, though. The hums of the house were muted, and the aftertaste was on the other side of the gel.

The speakers in his ear canals vibrated. A faint, slow pulse, something animal. What was that? He almost laughed when he recognized it. Elephant heartbeat, and the big, rumbling breaths of a sleeping mammal the size of a semi cab. A pretty good recording, too. Then other tracks layered in, accumulating volume.

Underground, deep buried water. He knew that one from the Batcave, far out in the tunnels, halfway to the bay. Forest floor with clicking insects and the creak of trees. Sequoia? Almost definitely sequoia. Rushing wind whistling at the tree line, somewhere cold. Nothing sharp, nothing worth interpreting, but ranging from bass to high treble, covering the local distractions.

"Louder, please," he mouthed, reluctant to add his own voice to the mix. The volume slowly rose until he nodded.

One last addition rose up, standing out among the other layers. Bruce's heartbeat and breath hummed directly into Clark's ears, a shimmering echo later than the same sounds from outside the headphones. It matched the thump in Bruce's chest against his cheek, but much louder. "How's that?" Bruce murmured, seemingly from the center of his head.

Clark just nodded again. Bruce kissed his forehead.

"Today is for you," Bruce said. "You've been such a good Clark, and taken so much for me. No discipline today, and no dialing up the collar. A little adjustment" — he pulled on the collar to press it against Clark's windpipe, then moved it back down — "if I need to manage your strength, but that's all. I'll keep the world out, and I'll keep you safe. However you want to move, whatever you want to ask for, it's Spoil Clark Day."

Clark could hear him smiling, and smiled back. He felt so strange, though, so utterly distant. He clung to Bruce anxiously with his arms, unable to even dig his fingers in.

He thought of something that might help, something Bruce might be saving for the right time. He moved one of his mitts to clumsily maneuver Bruce's arm. Bruce followed his nudges patiently until he worked out where they were headed, which was Bruce's hand settling warm on Clark's crotch.

"Do you have a leash?" Clark asked, pressing down on Bruce's hand in lieu of a more detailed request. He'd gotten so much better at asking without blushing, and it was easier yet without sight or sound, where he was practically asking in the privacy of his own head. Still, some combinations of words would make him stammer as long as he lived, so he hoped Bruce could take a hint.

Bruce encircled the base of Clark's balls and tugged in time with his words. "I do have a leash. Would you like that?" He waited for a nod. "It's in this room, but I'll need to stand up. You'll stay here." He pressed Clark belly-down to the bed and tucked a soft blanket down around him.

So far away. Too far. "Stay, Clark."

Clark bit his lip and held still, listening to the swish of Bruce's blood and the variation in his breath as he stood and walked around, the sound still thrumming from deep in Clark's head, the rest of him swaddled in fluff and padding and darkness.

The bed shifted. A hand settled onto his shoulder blades. "Here you go."

Bruce rubbed leather straps across Clark's nose and mouth, letting him feel and taste-smell the grain of the leather. Then he pulled Clark into his lap again, skin to skin, and buckled the straps around the base of his cock and balls. One loop went around both, a broader strap drew his balls out and down, and finally a tug on top. Bruce pulled the leash taut and brushed it against Clark's chest and belly to let him track it.

Clark settled faster than he had imagined. Something to feel, a solid connection with a weight and a texture, had apparently been the missing piece. He relaxed his head down against Bruce's chest. Only his cheek could touch directly, but it was enough.

"That went over well."

"Can't float away now," Clark said. He'd stopped censoring his odder metaphors, for the most part. They communicated well enough, and Bruce seemed flattered, or at least amused, at the dream-babble Clark trusted him with.

"Ahhh. No, you're secured. I have the other end around my wrist along with the collar control." Bruce put both arms around him. "And my default, if you don't ask for something else, is to let you relax while I give you all the attention you can soak up."

Clark relaxed and let Bruce support him. Bruce wrapped a leg around Clark's waist to arrange them together more closely; not much of Clark actually fit on Bruce's lap, but with one of Bruce's knees behind his lower back and the other over his thighs, Bruce could hold most of him at once. He knew where he was, safely surrounded.

Soft petting, an occasional tug on his leash, and Bruce's face buried in the hair of Clark's scalp. Then a reach and a breath, and a prickling texture scratched along Clark's arm.

"Mmmm?"

"Hairbrush," Bruce said, and brushed him slightly harder. "Good?"

"Mm-hm." Clark nodded, careful not to jar his blindfold, and cuddled in closer.

He maneuvered around like people did when they were trying to get an itch scratched. Apparently he did it right, because the hairbrush moved where he expected. He guided it over his shoulder and to his more sensitive lower back, then arched against it until the bristles bent. Bruce switched to a quick scrubbing motion and kept the pressure firm. It tingled.

"All over," Clark said. He relaxed into the methodical scrub. Oh, that sounded nice. "Bath," he mumbled. "Later. When you can wash my hair."

"Mmm." Bruce moved the brush in small circles down Clark's flank and thigh. "That sounds fun. Put you in the tub and soap you up all over. Would you try to do something about it?"

"Uht-uh. Be good and let you."

"Let me take care of you." Bruce spoke low and smoky. "It's so good, when I can take care of you. Do what needs doing. Make you feel how I want you to feel. Touch you all over. Wash your ears and your nose, even if you squirm. I'll keep you nice and low for it, so you don't have to worry about fighting. Then bring you up and let you splash around."

Bruce moved Clark's leg, spreading him to scrub his inner thighs, then worked down to his calves. Clark made no attempt to steer. His job was to soak up attention.

Clark rolled lazily to drape himself over Bruce's leg, showing more of his back. The hairbrush went away, and a different grippy sensation started rubbing up from Clark's ankles. Something on Bruce's hands, clinging and dragging against the skin and hairs.

"W'zat?" he asked, but his nose already told him the answer. Leather, a thicker and softer grade than the leash, smooth side out. "Rough side. Please."

"You like it scratchy," Bruce said.

"Mm-hmmmm."

After a moment, Clark felt the leather again. Even the rough side was soft suede, but it was some kind of loose mitt, and turning it inside out had exposed seams and edges; Bruce dragged them against his skin as often as possible. The added friction felt nice. Bruce went over every limb twice, once toward the body in a deep massage and then a second pass lightly brushing outward with just the seams.

Clark reached an arm up and out, encouraging Bruce to do his armpits and sides as well. He twisted around to show his chest. He had thought his nipples might be more sensitive, with his senses so narrowed. They were, but in pleasant swells of sensation, not jolts.

Something new whispered across his lips, his throat, his chest. Silk, that had to be silk. It tickled. He arched up for firmer contact. "Petting," he said.

"Petting it is," Bruce repeated back. His hand went heavy.

Silk slid across Clark's skin, lingering on his nipples. It was nice, but not as nice as the brush or the suede. Softly, softly down his belly to swirl around his cock. Maybe he'd nap for a bit, while everything was so soft . . .

"Should I try something else?"

Clark nodded. It hadn't occurred to him to ask. Preferences. Spoil Clark Day. "Scratchy."

Bruce dragged his fingernails down Clark's soft underarm. "Like that?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Or harder?"

Was harder an option? Keratin had limits. Bruce wouldn't have asked, though. "Mm-hmmmmmm."

Bruce pressed him down to lie flat. The cock leash tugged; it was probably hitched to the bed frame. Wind whistled. Insects chirped. Bruce's heartbeats vibrated in Clark's chest as Bruce swaddled him again. "Stay."

Staying was easier, tethered to the bed and with the memory of Bruce's touch all over his skin. He listened. Bruce moved around the room, opening and closing doors and drawers. The mechanical sounds were faint and muffled. Only Bruce himself came through on the mic.

The bed moved under Clark, then the leash. Bruce rubbed his hand along Clark's jawline; the leather of the leash was wrapped around his knuckles. Clark relaxed even further. "Got me."

"I've got you." Bruce kissed the top of his head. "Let's see if any of these work for you."

Bruce pulled the blanket down to expose Clark down to the thighs. Clark was happy to stay on his belly as long as Bruce pressed against him, skin to skin. Something dry and rough touched the base of his spine. He tried to guess. It was hard and roundish, smaller than a hand. When it moved in slow circles on his lower back, it was sandpaper, cat's tongues, the rocks on cliffsides that had never been worn down by water.

Rocks . . . Lois kept a rock in the shower, for her feet. Apparently Bruce did, too. "Pumice." He wiggled happily. "'S'good."

Bruce scrubbed harder, ranging down the sensitive curves of Clark's butt and thighs. Bits of grit were breaking free of the fragile volcanic rock and rolling between stone and skin, a more intense sensation. If Clark had been a cat, he'd have been too relaxed even to purr. He soaked it up.

Time was measured in limbs, turns of his body, and kisses when Bruce rolled him to get a different side. Clark wondered what the stone would feel like on his fingers and toes, but he was not currently a being with perceptible fingers and toes; unchanging sensation was no sensation at all. Gravity was optional, only identified by the pressure of the mattress against one plane of his body, then another.

Bruce sanded his nipples in a slower, stroking rhythm. It tingled. Clark breathed against Bruce's chest. Bruce smelled like sex. Bruce was trying to pet him into wanting sex. Clark grinned. It was Spoil Clark Day, and Clark was enjoying being exfoliated far too much to care about sex at the moment.

He flopped out on his back and lounged; the position moved the collar snug against his throat, dragging him down, down, down. He hadn't touched it, so it wasn't quite cheating. If Bruce didn't notice for a while, that wasn't Clark's responsibility. "'Nother one, please."

"Sure." Bruce moved the collar, brushing his fingers against Clark's neck.

Clark whined under his breath.

"Ahhh, I see. You like staying low?"

Clark hummed softly.

"Okay. In moderation. I need to know what's working." Bruce settled the collar in a compromise position, still close enough to make Clark's head swim. "Let's try this one." 

'This one' was a flat . . . paddle, maybe, with hard-edged lumps and bumps. It felt strange against his side. Rubber? Ha. He leaned against the sole of Bruce's shoe to feel it bend.

It had deep, toothy tread. Probably a running shoe. Definitely not one of Bruce's hand-cobbled formal dress up shoes. Clark flexed his toes, thinking about shoes. The mitts weren't shoes. He did not have shoes. He barely had toes.

He had Bruce breathing on his belly, interspersing warm air with knobbly scrapes of rubber. He had heavy arms and a dizzy head and Bruce's pulse echoing through him. He had exactly enough movement to arch when the shoe reached his hip, silently inquiring what it would feel like against his cock.

The big blocky treads pulled everything back and forth, rolling his foreskin. Fun sensation. Bruce pressed harder; the larger movements massaged Clark's whole groin and tugged the leash around. Bruce made a sound low in his throat, so quietly that he might not have even realized. Clark smiled to himself and lifted a thigh, asking for the attention to move on to his legs.

He drifted as the shoe texture reached his ankles and moved back up. Grippy bumpy, grippy bumpy, stroke of Bruce's hand, grippy bumpy. Rolled to his side. Grippy bumpy all the way up his back to his armpits and shoulders. Scent of rubber and Bruce's sweat.

Bruce would take it away in a minute. The collar had shifted when Clark had been rolled to his side, so he had surfaced enough to do something about that. "Higher. Face."

"Okay." Bruce sounded amused, but his breaths deepened as he rubbed the tread gently across Clark's cheeks and mouth. Strong scent. Bruce everywhere.

A shoelace tickled across Clark's nose. He grabbed it with his lips, then teeth, and held on. Bruce tugged gently; Clark didn't let go.

Bruce tilted the shoe to rub the stitched upper and laces over him. Clark hummed happily and returned the pressure. Just a little closer . . . He snagged the top line of the fabric with his teeth.

Bruce pressed the shoe against his face, hard enough to mash his nose and to let him get a larger bite of the shoe's ankle. Clark sank his teeth into the synthetic padding and let his head fall back, triumphant. He shook the shoe back and forth with his puny strength.

"I was thinking of moving on to the next one." Bruce tugged.

Clark growled.

"I could leave this with you."

He growled again and bit harder.

Bruce moved the shoe to and fro, wobbling the attached Clark. He rubbed Clark's jaws, encouraging him to let go. Clark did not let go. He luxuriated in the massage and the complex shoe smells drowning out one more sense, and he took great satisfaction in having found a way to grab and hold something, even briefly.

He took even more satisfaction in the subtle edge to Bruce's voice when Bruce said, "You won't win this one," and ever so gently slid the collar to rest under Clark's Adam's apple.

Up and down were meaningless. Words were meaningless. Fighting was meaningless, but still a lot of fun. Clark didn't realize his jaw had gone slack until the shoe slipped away. He whined when the kryptonite blur eased up.

"Here you go." Bruce tucked the shoe under Clark's cheek like a pillow, then draped the laces across his face so he could go after them when his lips started working.

"Yurr nice."

"Thank you. There's one more scratchy. You want that now? Or something else?"

"Scratchy."

"You got it." Bruce's breath in Clark's ears went slow and steady. Too steady for the way his heart sped up. He was controlling himself. He pressed Clark's outflung arm to the bed, holding it still.

A sharp point touched Clark's inner wrist. It dragged up to the hollow of his elbow. A second point joined it in the journey up toward his shoulder. They didn't hurt. Nothing could really hurt except the collar. He was pretty sure they were knife-sharp, though. The sensation lingered.

A curved blade scraped from the shoulder and across his chest at a shallow angle, like Bruce was trying to shave him. Clark sighed and nestled down on his shoe pillow.

"It's leaving scratches," Bruce said. "Barely, but there are lines on your skin." He blew on Clark's wrist and ran fingers along the paths. The lines were slightly more sensitive.

If Bruce pressed hard enough and dialed up the collar high enough, he might manage to draw blood.

He wouldn't. Not without talking about it, especially not on Spoil Clark Day. A finger stick was one thing, but a blade . . . He'd make Clark beg before he'd allow that intimacy. Even the thought sent Clark boneless. He relaxed into the bed, still and silent, easy to draw on without concern for sudden movements.

"Good?"

"So good," Clark whispered.

"Good Clark." Bruce kissed his neck and shifted his shoulder to expose his front, then traced slow curves on his chest with the knife's point. Curve curve curve, one after another, chasing across his pecs, narrowly avoiding his nipples.

Clark followed the curves in his mind's eye. He was pretty sure of the entirely predictable shape, but didn't get confirmation until Bruce carved the fiddly little ears into his sternum. "Bat."

"Yes." Bruce kissed his chest at each of the scalloped points.

"More bat."

Bruce's breath hissed before he controlled it. "Ask again."

"More bat, _please_ , Bruce."

Bruce shuddered in every life sign. "Thank you. Relax. I'm going to _decorate you_."

Clark licked at the shoelaces on his face until he managed to get them into his mouth again. He didn't really bite, just hung on. Bruce brushed gentle fingers across his lips, then gripped his shoulder and started carving.

No more bats yet. Pointy points dragged in long lines. Two parallel tracks along his bicep, then four points around his forearm like an oddly irregular comb or fork. The curved blade along the planes of his belly, then a different blade shape, convex and hugging his side.

It wasn't a knife, not any normal kind of knife. Slowly, dreamily, Clark tried to sound out the shape. Like the blindfolded men understanding an elephant by touch. Like the elephant sleeping in his ears. Curved like a sickle, sharp on both sides. Broadly spaced tines scraped down his thighs, but the points weren't level with each other. No straight lines anywhere, like the French curve he'd enjoyed tracing around as a kid, only made entirely of knives. Maybe the size of a hand.

A French curve made of knives, in Bruce's hand.

A collection of curves and scalloped points, whirling through the air, lodging in walls, sawing at ropes, returning faithfully to Bruce's hand. Carving sensitive lines and stripes all over Clark. Bruce wasn't drawing more bats. He was drawing _with_ a bat.

"Baaaaaaaat." He'd forgotten the shoelaces on his tongue. Didn't matter. His body was increasingly defined by a surface of tingling scratches.

Bruce didn't answer, except by kissing his hip and reaching to lay a hand on his jaw for a moment. They breathed quietly together. Bruce tilted Clark face-first into the shoe to start a long, snaking spiral outlining his spine.

From his wrist to his shoulder on the arm that wasn't hidden under his body, in more detail than the first pass. Line. Line. Swirl. Scrape. The sleeve radiated onto his shoulder blade and clavicle and side. The marks swept down to connect with the spine.

Leg. Long lines on leg. Razor points of pressure sliced through the warm, padded darkness. Clark breathed with Bruce, swaying with the thump and swish of his blood.

Bruce knew about bodies. The patterns across Clark's skin traced his muscles and his bones, the lines of force and movement. People liked Clark's muscles and were not subtle about saying so. In the dark and humming quiet, under Bruce's blade, they became something else, something treasured. Decorated, not decorative.

Rolled all the way over to the other side. Clark was probably on an upswing; the collar didn't hurt much. His thoughts should be clear and present, but he was far, far away, tethered by a leash he barely felt. He made no move to help as Bruce replaced his pillow and curled him up, tucking his arms and legs in close to his body.

A brush of fingers offered him the shoelaces again. He just kissed Bruce's fingertips and nestled down. Bruce petted his hair and his jaw. Usually he would have rubbed behind Clark's ears, but Clark had thick, cool pressure and a layer of lead velour instead of ears and eyes and face.

He had Bruce's pulse, and Bruce's hands, and Bruce's faint scratches on more and more of his skin.

All four limbs were held now. Bruce finished his inner thigh and folded it into position again. Clark's legs tingled where they pressed together. Bruce carved his flank and outlined his butt, connecting up to the tails of the helix on his tailbone.

Arms and legs unfolding felt unexpected, though not surprising. Nothing Bruce did was surprising as he moved limbs and turned Clark to rest on his belly, outstretched. Flying in place, weightless. The designs on his skin all meant Bruce and needed no further shape, but he thought maybe his shoulders were getting enormous scalloped wings.

All over him, timeless. A bat carving bats with a bat. Property of bat. Honorary bat. Bat bat bat, flying in darkness, navigating by a deeper sense, by true understanding of a single distinctive sound.

A barrel roll. The collar helped him drift gently down to land on his back, safe and warm, laid open like an offering, the last unmarked plane.

A bird, a plane, a bat, a bat, a bat. Bruce's bat.

Concentric scallops, unmistakable, radiating out from the center in echoes, etching down his belly and flapping open to connect to his thighs and back. Up to his shoulders to curve over.

"I've dulled every edge of this on you," Bruce said from deep in his head. "It's past resharpening. It'll always remember marking your skin. As will I."

Bruce took him by the collar and lifted, baring his throat. Fine lines from his shoulders up to his jaw, tracing the signs of life. Tracing the sensitive skin of his lips.

He opened his mouth and offered his tongue. The point of a wing dragged slowly along the centerline, from as deep as it would go and out to the tip. Offering accepted.

Bruce kissed him, letting him relax weightless into the bed. Time stretched.

Something soft touched his chest. Soft and slightly prickly. "Mink," Bruce murmured. "Don't worry, it's vintage."

Something of Bruce's grandmother's, or great-great-grandmother's. Bruce's family kept what was theirs. Treasures. Treasured. Petted with soft furs, scratches soothed. Every inch of skin buffed and cared for.

Bruce's bat.

Bruce lay beside him, running the fur down him from stem to stern, tingling throat to tethered crotch. Soft.

"That's all my plans," Bruce said. "We can stay right here, or come out, or you can tell me if you'd like something."

His mouth moved, but words were far away.

"Would you like something, Clark?"

Hearing his name drew him in a little closer and let him speak. "You."

"Yeah?"

"Touched me all over with everything but you," Clark said, one slow word at a time. "You feeling good. Enjoying me."

Bruce was a sensory symphony. "I am enjoying you immensely. Do you want me to come on you? Or in you?"

"Wherever. Feeling you. Only you. Enjoy me."

"Only me."

"Mm-hm."

"Well, then." Bruce reached to unbuckle the leash from Clark's balls. "I don't need this . . ." The tight straps lifted away. "To hold you."

He rubbed Clark with a big warm hand, replacing the sensations. Then he lay down on Clark's tingling skin with all his weight. Their bodies aligned. Their breaths aligned. Bruce tilted his hips in a graceful, sexual movement, hard cock sliding against offered body.

"Yours," Clark breathed.

"Mine."

Bruce ground and thrust against him in slow motion. Hands held him and stroked him. Mouth kissed him and licked and bit. Bruce felt so real.

Somewhere, there was a bed, in a bedroom, in a mansion. Sheets, presumably. Something prevented two flightless bodies from falling to the center of the earth. One of the bodies moved and spoke and touched and lusted. One was an echo of skin, a second vessel for the same heartbeat.

Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, he echoed. He was held. He was enjoyed. He experienced, and was experienced. He reverberated on the same frequency.

Bruce sped up against him. Bruce slid slick cock between his thighs, legs pressed tightly to make a snug space under his balls, massaging with every thrust. Bruce's sweat bound them together, skin to skin. Bruce's blood and breath thundered, all-encompassing.

Bruce made them come, rubbing their cocks together until a sticky mess spread out on their bellies.

He floated, held safely in Bruce's slowing pulse.

Bruce bathed him with a hot towel, rubbing every exposed inch. Then, carefully, reverently, Bruce unstrapped the foot mitts and pulled them away one at a time. Hot towel on his feet, and kisses on his toes.

Toes. Clark had toes. He wiggled them and managed to bop Bruce on the nose. He giggled. Bruce laughed with him, low in his throat, and kissed every toe again.

Hands. Clark had hands, awakened by a steaming towel, and fingers which Bruce sucked one by one. Clark moved his arms and hands, feeling the shapes of Bruce's nose, eyelashes, cheekbones, jaw stubble, and hair with his newly discovered fingertips. Bruce kissed his palms.

The wind whistling across the mountaintops faded. The sequoias went silent. The water in the cave stilled. The elephant wandered off. Only Bruce stayed in his ears.

"Don't go," Clark whispered.

"I won't," Bruce said. "I'm right here." He held Clark tightly. "But it's time to come out."

Clark mashed his head hard against Bruce's chest and grabbed him with all ten gloriously mobile fingers. "Stay."

"I'm right here. And so are you." Bruce squeezed him in place. "You can go slowly. But it's time to come out."

Bruce rocked him. They breathed together.

"Okay."

"Good Clark," Bruce said from the core of him. "Thank you."

The noise canceling faded first, then finally Bruce's microphone, tapering off until only the Bruce outside remained, muffled by earplugs. Clark pawed at his ears. Bruce worked the headphones free, one at a time, being careful not to uncover Clark's eyes.

"I'm bringing you all the way up now," Bruce said, several inches from his newly exposed ears. "I'm still right here. You're still mine."

Clark nodded. The collar clicked. The curtains ground open. In the darkness, light flooded Clark's skin. He bathed in strength. Bruce stroked his back, tracing the memory of carved wings.

Clark floated up to curl around Bruce's torso, arms wrapped around him and knees tucked up against his back, touching nothing else. The world was a roar of emergencies and arguments and squirrels fucking all over the world, car exhaust and sawmills and someone making brownies in North Dakota, but here in Bruce's bedroom, there was a heartbeat, and the sweat in Bruce's chest hair, and Clark could touch only only only Bruce in one more moment of perfect darkness.

He stretched time to make the moment last forever.

"Okay," he finally said. He touched down to kneel in front of Bruce, head bowed. His hands rested on Bruce's thighs. Bruce's hands stayed wrapped around his shoulders. "Please let me see you."

Bruce pulled the velcro apart and formally lifted the blindfold from Clark's face. The full spectrum poured in through Clark's eyelids. Bruce used one finger to lift his chin. Clark opened his eyes.

Bruce had sweat-matted hair and lines of tension around his mouth. His eyes were a little bloodshot and had purpling shadows under them from a week of later nights than usual. The faintest of bruises colored one cheekbone. He watched Clark with wonder and concern. He wanted so desperately to be enough. He was perfect.

Clark leaned up and kissed him. "You're perfect. Thank you."

Bruce grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him to bury his nose in Bruce's neck. A low chuckle rumbled in his ear. "You're welcome."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Leo_Our_Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leo_Our_Queen) and [Internerdionality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Internerdionality) for the chapter beta!
> 
> Clark's heirloom daydream inspired an art! [Good things in life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25262155) by [vkfarenheit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vkfarenheit/pseuds/vkfarenheit)


	5. Unique in All the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter content advisory: phobia exposure, stressful memories of villainy. ]

Clark flew straight in through Bruce's open balcony door, slipping in through the blackout curtains to touch down in his bedroom as instructed. The burst of sunlight that came in with him lit Bruce in silhouette where he sat in his usual place at the foot of the bed. It also flashed across something shiny, but Clark was busy admiring the profile of Bruce's jaw and could look at the rest soon enough.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, closing the door behind himself. Then he stood very still, because he had seen the shackles draped across the corners of the bed. They were welded metal, as thick as a finger, with interlocking latches on the cuffs; there were no loose joints or fiddly magnetic bits. They were bolted to structural points in the floor and wall. Titanium alloy.

"It happens. You made it." Bruce looked as calm as he always did, sitting among the chains with the collar by his hip.

"I —" Clark stayed calm. He wasn't in the collar yet. He didn't have to do anything, and he could always ask to be let out. "I want to be good."

Bruce tilted his head to the side, a mannerism he used in the cowl to show confusion.

"Those are. You don't need those. I'll be good."

"Ah." Bruce watched him for a moment. "I've been unclear. If you're wearing this. If you're mine. Then you're good. It's a tautology."

"That's not . . ." Clark shook his head.

"It's not a participation prize. It's a fact. As long as you don't voluntarily touch the collar" — _he clutched and yanked at it every time, helpless against his own reflexes at the first blast of kryptonite_ — "and don't interfere with my ability to use the controls, you're fulfilling your purpose. Whether or not you do what I expect. Whether or not you do as you're told. It's my moral obligation to take care of you, and to take responsibility for your actions. Handing that over to me, that's it. That's your part. And it's much harder than mine."

It was tempting to believe it. The words left a fluttering lightness in Clark's chest. "In the gym, I bit you."

"And? You knew you weren't strong enough to do real damage. Even if you had, that would be on me. It isn't your responsibility." Bruce leaned back a little; the ease in his posture just added to his power. "You asked for it to be real. This is as real as it gets. You've given me the right to decide what good means, and I'm telling you. Now. Are you ready to be good for me?"

Clark gathered himself. Specifics. Say what you mean. "I wanted to hold still. Not struggle. You don't need those."

"True. But I like them. You can hold still for me if you want. I enjoy that." Bruce's unbroken stare and steady voice were getting to him. "But today's going to hurt. It's my job to keep you where I want you."

There were still choices. There were always choices. But Bruce did not deal in half-measures. If Clark wanted to be kept that day, he would be kept in chains. Demanding anything else would break the spell. He wanted it to be real. With a single deep breath, he decided it was real, and it was.

Clark undressed in a dreamlike series of motions he barely felt. He did it slowly, but didn't worry about floating to kick off his boots and tights; it let him keep eye contact. He approached Bruce's bare feet like an altar. He knelt. He bowed his head.

Bruce touched both sides of his neck with warm, callused hands before closing the collar and taking Clark. He settled his fingers in Clark's hair, and Clark knew himself kept.

"Good." Bruce pulled Clark's head forward to rub ear and jaw against shirt buttons and belt buckle. The collar control dangling from his wrist bumped Clark's cheek. "I won't knock you all the way down today. You'll be safe, you'll be managed, but the collar will run hot."

Clark didn't move. He waited. He didn't know what he would do when the kryptonite hit. Bracing would be impossible, but maybe if it wasn't dialed all the way up? He had to try.

"Up on the bed." Bruce patted the sheet, _thump-thump_. "On your back."

That was an unexpected relief. Clark considered climbing up on his knees, but hell with it. He still had his powers, and Bruce could revoke them if he wanted. He glided up gracefully to center himself on the bed and rolled to his back before landing. He didn't spread his arms and legs yet.

"Thank you." Bruce crawled up beside him, still clothed, and held out an open hand. Clark put his wrist in it and let his arm be drawn out and chained.

Other arm. Leg. He had a fair amount of slack. Bruce knew exactly how much; this was all calculated to let him thrash, but not reach Bruce's eyes if he got violent. He was allowed, even encouraged, to get violent. But he was allowed to not.

It wasn't his first time spread-eagled in chains, though thankfully it was the first time naked. Villains didn't leave as much slack. He usually hadn't been conscious for this part, and he'd never been at full power. There had been monologues, irritating sneers and grandstanding, ticking timers, other hostages. He'd been completely absorbed in figuring out his escape options.

There were no options here. Not even struggling yet. He wouldn't betray Bruce's trust by snapping the chains with one sharp tug, when he'd been allowed to be good. Bruce's moral shell game was attractive, but there was still _good_ and _better_ , and Clark wanted to be better. He wouldn't break Bruce's shiny new toys.

He would lie still, and feel the cool press of titanium on his wrists and ankles. He would watch Bruce's hands and his silent, serious expression. He would feel his open position; it wasn't threatening yet, at a gut level, when he couldn't be harmed and could move freely at any time, effortless as breathing, no matter how thick the cobweb chains.

It would be frightening soon. He still had trouble imagining it. State-based memory. He was getting better at predicting it, though. He could remember how he had reacted, even if he couldn't quite feel it.

Bruce put a firm hand on his chest. "When you're safe to move, I'll tell you."

Clark nodded. There would be a gap, then, where he could do harm. Where he had to be trustworthy. That felt good. He flexed his arms and legs, practicing convulsing outward instead of in.

Bruce stood back from the bed and pressed the button. Clark gasped. It hurt, but it crept up on him. Slow, dizzy, a nasty scratching in his throat and his mind. _(get it away get it away get it away)_ He extended his fingers and pointed his toes as hard as he could.

Another click and it was worse. He shook. He gritted his teeth. He would not break Bruce's toys. His hands felt strange. Neurology, signal disruption. _(poison poison poison)_ He clenched his fists.

Again, and it was truly terrible. He hoped it would be enough soon. He couldn't, he had to hold still, he — "Please," he whispered, teeth still locked.

"Ten more seconds. You can do it."

He could do it. He'd asked to do it. He'd done things that were utter agony for ten seconds, when lives were at stake. He could count, he couldn't count, thinking hurt too much to count, he just had to hold on — 

_Click_ , and the pain crashed down on him in an abrupt flood. His body folded closed, or tried to. The chains rattled and creaked; he could hear the metal under stress, but couldn't stop himself, and in another moment it didn't matter. He kept wrenching at his restraints, nonsensically trying to protect his body from blows that were coming from the inside. His limbs were clumsy, sloppy, drunken. Signal disruption.

"Safe." Bruce was sitting beside him on the bed again. When he'd moved, Clark didn't know.

The collar clicked. The pain settled down enough that Clark couldn't uncurl, but didn't have to flail around. His breath shook. He'd done it. Bruce had let him prove himself and he'd done it.

"Good. Good job." Bruce petted his hair.

Good, good, good. Good didn't make his hands stop reaching pathetically toward his throat, but it helped nonetheless.

Bruce shifted around, undressing. Usually he stripped down, quick and efficient; this time was long and lazy, watching Clark squirm as he unbuttoned and slid out of his clothes, one piece at a time.

Clark whimpered. Bruce watched him.

"Can you still fly?"

Clark tried. His weight lightened on the mattress. If he really pushed, he could lift off, no longer touching the sheets, but no further. He stayed up. Being able to twist from side to side gave the viscerally satisfying illusion that he might get somewhere.

Bruce stroked his skin, exploring how he flexed; Clark drifted at him, straightening an arm and leg to get as much skin contact as possible. Slowly, no matter how he strained, he sank again. Gravity had won.

Bruce pushed him gently to recenter him before his full weight asserted itself, when his skin could still drag along instead of digging in. A balloon drifting in the breeze as it ran out of lift. A body sinking into a mattress. A writer high as a fucking kite if he was thinking in abstractions when everything dripped with inescapable pain.

"Good. Beautiful." Bruce touched him all over.

Clark kicked and squirmed and reached for more contact. He was weakening. He might pass the grip test now. "Hurts." As if Bruce didn't know.

"Yes. You're so good."

It shouldn't work. Good should have no meaning without an alternative. It still left a warm glow in his gut, and made it easier to twist and strain without apology.

"You can have a rest."

The collar faded to what was probably its usual trickle. Clark had no sense of scale anymore. He collapsed gratefully. He sprawled out, both his limbs and the chains slack.

"Better?"

He just nodded, too relieved to put words together or open his eyes. He smiled when Bruce ruffled his hair.

"I have some more metal for you."

"Mm." He assembled his thoughts and opened his eyes. "Yeah?"

Bruce held up a broad ring of metal, as thick as his thumb and the same pale gray sheen as the chains. He turned it to show the bat etched into each side.

"Ha." Clark realized he was pretty hard. Not that far down, then. Kryptonite knocked out his ability to perform along with his strength.

"You got hard while you were holding still, when it really started hurting." Bruce squeezed the head of Clark's cock. "And stayed up the whole time you were fighting for me." He slipped the cock ring onto Clark, rubbing the cool metal down his shaft. There was still plenty of space in the ring. "So you probably won't need this. I'll just enjoy seeing it on you."

He pushed Clark's balls up one at a time, popping them in, then pulled hard on his sack. Clark groaned and arched, enjoying the strong tug. He looked down. From his perspective, the logo nestled in his pubes was upside down; he was not the intended viewer.

"Have I told you lately how hot it is that you like this?" Bruce squeezed and twisted.

"Nnh." Clark bucked up his hips. Having some strength was great. "Please make me come, Bruce."

"Not just yet." Bruce kept working his balls. "All you want, soon."

Clark let his head loll back and enjoyed himself. It could be simple, and he could be tame, and it didn't have to hurt much.

"Let's see how this feels." Bruce opened a box and held up a gleaming butt plug with swirling spiral ridges; it would screw itself in. The widest point looked pleasantly fatter than a cock.

"Mmmm, please, Bruce." He relaxed as Bruce gave him a finger or two of lube and then nosed the metal up between his cheeks. He gasped. " _Cold._ "

Bruce chuckled. "That'll happen when you put a kilo of titanium in the freezer overnight."

Clark stretched his arms out and wiggled his fingers, making the chains rustle. He grunted under his breath as Bruce pushed, twisted, and eventually shoved, seeing how far he could get into Clark's uncooperative and thoroughly chilled ass without anything like reasonable foreplay. The temperature was fun, but didn't help with the cooperation.

"Hey." Bruce rubbed his hand over Clark's abs. "Going to loosen you up a little."

Clark let out a breath, wrapped his fingers around the chains, and closed his eyes. "Please."

A gradual increase in dosage, slow enough to give him some choice in how he responded. He held still for all he was worth, body taut at first and then sagging in surrender. Bruce rotated the cold metal until the bulb of it popped in and it snugged up tight. The pain receded, leaving Clark dizzy and twitching.

"So good." Bruce crawled up to lie across his body and tousle his hair. "Look at you. Gorgeous."

"Mmmm." Clark tipped his head back to show his throat. Bruce rubbed his neck muscles and the hinges of his jaw, and let Clark lick his face.

Everything was warm and soft and good, except for Bruce's metal which was cold and hard and good. Clark happily slurped at Bruce's fingers, welcoming them into his mouth until Bruce had his hand in up to the knuckles.

"Clark."

Clark snapped to attention, as much as he could with his mouth yawned around Bruce's hand.

"Show me . . . 'Lemme-out.'"

Clark whapped his flat hands on the bed, _one-two-three, one-two-three_ , until Bruce stopped him. They'd practiced. Bruce had insisted. If Clark needed it, the muscle memory would be there. This was a fun way to practice. He wiggled his tongue.

"Good. Show me . . . 'Please.'"

Please was not a signal. There was just the one signal. Not counting every other signal and expression and body language cue they'd built up over years of working together. Really, having his mouth full was barely an inconvenience. He arched under Bruce's weight, humping and whining, mouthing 'please,' which only came out "eeh, eeh."

"Mmm, good. Show me . . . 'More.'"

Clark flattened his limbs to the bed as hard as he could, demonstrating how well and willingly he could behave, and he begged with his hips and his spine and his stuffed mouth.

"Very, very good." Bruce ground his crotch down against Clark's. "Show me 'Lemme out.'"

Clark _whap-whap-whapped_ , but didn't stop begging for more. Bruce grinned down at him, delighted. Clark was a good and delightful Clark.

"Good Clark. Enough."

Clark stopped practicing his safeword, but kept begging.

"Enough, Clark. Down." Bruce pushed his hand down harder, pinning Clark's head and tickling the soft parts of his throat.

Reluctantly, Clark settled.

"Goooood Clark."

Bruce scritched his scalp with his free hand. Then he started withdrawing his knuckles from Clark's mouth. When Clark inevitably tried to follow, he got barely an inch before he was held down firmly by the hair. He whined and reached with his tongue until Bruce kissed him.

"I have something else for you," Bruce murmured into his mouth.

"Mmmm?"

"But, I'll be honest, you're not in the headspace I thought you'd be today. And this one's like the collar and the crate. You can't have it unless you're thinking about it like I do." Bruce drew back for eye contact. "Understand?"

Clark nodded. He hoped he could think about it right.

"I want you to feel safe," Bruce said in his slowest, steadiest voice. "I want you to have every tangible proof that I will keep you safe. I want to open the curtains until your chains creak, and I want you to still know that you are safe." He reached and came back with something the size of two hands, wrapped in dark cloth. "Even if I'm rubbing my cock against your face."

He unwrapped a polished muzzle. Matte black straps, shining cage and buckles. It would fit over Clark's nose and jaw, with a black bite guard for his teeth. The cage had a scalloped design worked across the mouth, with suggestions of curved wings and a point trailing down to the chin.

Clark really, really hoped he could make himself think about it right.

"It's up to you."

"I'll try," Clark said. "Unbuckled. I want to try."

Bruce sat up to get a clear angle and lowered the cage slowly over Clark's face. Clark tamely opened his mouth for the bite guard, then let the shape of the muzzle press his teeth closed when it fitted down.

The cold pressure across the bridge of his nose and his jaw, he'd expected, though it was so much more intense in real life. The taste of rubber on his trapped tongue, he had imagined. The straps, though, the tickle on his forehead and ears, the smell of the leather, were all new and shockingly immediate. They would dig against his scalp as they tightened, inescapable, holding the metal immovably against his face.

Cool metal, matched set, wrapping him up. _Muzzled beast, only able to snarl._ Bruce's toys for Bruce's pet. _Only way to keep a monster in check._ Slow breaths. Bruce's treasured, trusted creature. _He could be locked up and forgotten, mute, whining._ Bruce watching him, calm and in control. _Chains on his wrists and ankles, sick with kryptonite, and Lex had threatened, if he didn't stop talking . . . He'd stopped talking._ Bruce didn't know about that. Even Clark had forgotten about that. Clark closed his eyes and shook his head.

Bruce lifted the muzzle away, then kissed his forehead. "Good Clark. Thank you for being careful."

Clark just nodded. He didn't apologize. Bruce wouldn't want him to apologize. Bruce wanted him to be honest, and careful with himself. He could do that. He shivered. He felt raw and bruised, somewhere deep in his chest, but he'd tried, and he'd been careful.

"Yeah. We'll stay right here." Bruce started kissing and licking down his throat, scraping teeth through his chest hair.

"More collar, please." Clark needed the vertigo, the distraction, the strange reassurance that if Bruce was stabbing him in the throat, then everything was as it should be. His mind melted into the familiar awful until it was easy again.

"There you go. Good."

Bruce rubbed against him, skin against all his skin, grounding him in his body. Warm and friendly and smelled good, and Clark became increasingly aware again of his straining cock and the way it pressed back against the plug.

Clark glanced around on the bed. Of course, Bruce had ninja'd it out of sight. "Wurr izzit?"

"Hmm?"

He swallowed and tried to clear his mouth of confusion. "Muzzle. Can I see it?"

Bruce watched him. "Is that a good idea?"

"Not close. Just. Where I can look at it."

"If you want. But no pushing. You'll have enough to think about in a minute."

"'Kay."

Bruce reached behind himself and produced the muzzle. He placed it barely in his own reach, out to the side, with the bat facing Clark. Then he knelt between Clark's legs and started sucking him enthusiastically.

Doing anything as complicated as keeping his eyes open plummeted down Clark's list of priorities. He didn't push. He lay back and felt it. Bruce's mouth dragged on him relentlessly. Tugs on his balls, hard squeezes on his leg muscles. A pleased rumbling hum from Bruce vibrated on the head of his cock as a reward for relaxing.

"Yeah. Yeah. Please." Clark whined as Bruce pulled off abruptly, doing a full push-up from Clark's thighs to keep him pinned.

"Soon."

"You already said soon."

Bruce grinned. "Much sooner." He dropped his knees to the bed with his legs spread almost as wide as Clark's, and flexed his gut with a nearly silent groan. A plug much smaller than the one in Clark landed on the sheet. "You get to be useful."

That there was a definite advantage to not being knocked down as far.

Bruce straddled him and carefully sank down. Clark held still, trembling with impatience. The head of his cock was incredibly sensitive in his current state, when he wasn't splitting his attention with getting the angle right or the sensation of hips under his fingertips. Hot, slick, tight, _Bruce_.

Bruce closed his eyes in pleasure as his weight settled all the way down. Then he looked down at Clark through his eyelashes. He had long, pretty eyelashes, which people didn't dare notice about Batman and barely noticed about Bruce Wayne. "Good Clark. Come all you want."

Clark did not need asking twice. He bucked up. It took all his strength to lift Bruce, and that meant he could really go for it. He fucked hard, moving where he liked and letting Bruce take care of himself. His effort made the room sway with vertigo. He flexed his fingers and pulled at the chains on his wrists, itching to touch, to hold Bruce by the hips and stroke his cock and his nipples, to be a good lover.

He was a good lover and a good Clark. Bruce defined it so. Bruce's good lover let himself be chained and ridden and _used_ and . . . Clark came, gasping, forgetting to hold still because he didn't have to hold still, because he was _safe_ , and he kept going.

Bruce groaned and arched. "Yeah. So good. Curtains open." The curtains crept open with a quiet, mechanized purr, letting light glimmer in. He didn't let them open very far, just an inch of sun in a band across Clark's belly, before he stopped them again.

Clark had to trust. This was a tough one. He pulled on his wrists as hard as he could, so Bruce would have warning, and he kept thrusting. If Bruce wanted it harder, he'd go harder. Harder, harder . . . The collar clicked and he whimpered, faltering. The world spun, but he was still getting stronger, a terrible paradox. Another click and the balance tipped; he wobbled back down toward safely contained.

"Curtains open." Another inch, another click. Bruce drove himself up and down, putting Clark's cock exactly where he wanted it, rubbing up tight around him, jouncing the plug, over and over.

Clark came again. "Yours." He strained against everything. "Yours." The sound of his cock sliding around in his own come was wet and filthy.

"Mine. Curtains open."

Clark whimpered under his breath. The sound didn't stop, a low keening that leaked out of his throat, an outlet for the pain. Bruce watched him greedily. Clark's vision doubled for a moment. "Gonna. Gonna be real awkward if I start getting hard for people chaining me down."

"I don't think that'll happen," Bruce said. "Curtains open."

By the time the kryptonite load was balanced with the sun warming most of his belly, Clark was making pathetic, high noises and yanking at the chains for all he was worth. It was awful, it was the advanced form of bearable, and the sun was keeping his thoughts far too coherent for the volume of pain screaming in his head. He could barely feel his own cock, but it was still busy, pulling his hips up and down and making Bruce make beautiful deep growls.

Bruce leaned forward to put his hands on Clark's shoulders. "None of them can hurt you like I do," he said. "None of them can appreciate what they're looking at."

"One, maybe." Clark glanced at the muzzle.

"Not even him. He's never really seen you. He's never seen you laid open. He will never enjoy your pain in half the detail I do." Bruce's eyes were intense. Sweat dripped from his face onto Clark's.

"Please make me safe," Clark whispered.

Bruce didn't respond except by landing his ass much harder on Clark's cock.

"Please. Muzzle. Keep me safe. Yours. Please."

Bruce reached for the muzzle and lowered his body across Clark's, blocking out the sun except for a small hot patch on his side. Clark plummeted, flattened by the sudden tilt into kryptonite overdose. His jaw was slack when Bruce pressed the muzzle into and around his mouth, lifted his head, and buckled the straps. Snug. Safe.

Weight shifted. Sun blazed. Clark surged back into agonized clarity. He bit down on the guard in his mouth, hard. It didn't give. Bruce stroked his cheekbone, trailing his fingers across the thick wires that pressed lines into Clark's cheeks, and rode him urgently again.

Clark thrashed and fought, because he could. He had tried to be good and tame and a steady thruster, but all of that had fallen away about six clicks ago and a Clark who couldn't even talk didn't have to think. All that was left was Bruce's naked creature, twisting and whining and gnawing and _safe_.

Bruce made him come again, one more sensation in a confusion of pleasure and pain. Another click and that one must have been easing it off; he couldn't feel a difference in the awful, but he was getting stronger, steadier, just a little at a time. Bruce shimmied up his body, through the sunbeam and then past it, leaving a slick trail up his abs and chest. He tilted to bring one leg past Clark's shoulder, then the other, kneeling with his thighs on Clark's collarbones and a hand on his head, where a strap parted his hair down the middle.

 _Please_ , Clark did his best to signal. _More_. His fingers scratched at Bruce's legs, but not at any angle that would let him grip, even if his fingers worked right. He groaned and sobbed at the relentless tug-of-war happening in his metabolism. Bruce rubbed the soft skin of his erection against Clark's cheek and jaw, bumping past the metal, then started jerking himself off with the head of his cock resting on Clark's lower lip.

"Yeah," Bruce said under his breath. "Good. So good." His hand worked fast. "Beautiful for me."

Clark tried to twist his head, pitch it forward and back. He had to know. He had to prove it wasn't just playing, that Bruce could really, truly stop him. Bruce did, over and over, gasping, working his cock with one hand and keeping Clark safe by the roots of his hair with the other.

Bruce shook with effort. The chains were starting to make the small noises of metal strained to its limits. Clark realized he could probably lift off. He tried it, and found himself two inches in the air with Bruce still sitting on his chest. He whimpered.

Bruce flicked his wrist to move the control in reach of his thumb. A quick click of the collar and Clark sank again. "Got you," Bruce said, "got you, got you, don't worry. My job."

Clark hissed breaths around the bite guard; his nose was too snuffly to breathe through. _Please._

"Mine. Mine." Bruce's teeth were clenched. His face was bright red and contorted.

_Yours. More. Yours. Hurts. Hurts. Yours._

"Mine." Bruce angled, squeezing his cock tightly, so his come spurted directly down into the muzzle, dripping along the bite guard into Clark's mouth.

Clark sucked at it, squirming and whimpering. Bruce watched him a moment longer, then flung himself backward, shielding most of Clark from the sun and resting the back of his head on Clark's crotch and thighs. The collar eased.

"Curtains closed," Bruce croaked.

Slowly, slowly, the collar dwindled to a neutral ache. Clark scrabbled his marginally coordinated fingers on Bruce's knees and tugged at hairs on his thighs. His senses were blissfully full of come and sweat and _Bruce_.

The muzzle held his face. He worked his jaw, exploring how much play he had to move his tongue and lips. He sucked at the bite guard. _Please,_ his hands said. "Eeth."

"Be right there," Bruce said. He moved his arms; Clark felt rather than saw him wipe the sweat from his face with both hands. Then he sat up with one good crunch, his feet shifting under Clark's shoulders. He petted Clark's face, tracing all the lines of the cage, then reached behind his ear to start on the buckles.

Clark shook his head violently. "Youhh."

"Mine. Okay." Bruce blinked at him. Blood was clearly taking a while to return to his brain. "A little longer?"

Clark nodded.

"Okay." Bruce reached to touch Clark's wrist where the cuff dug against it. "And these?"

Clark shrugged. Touching would be nice.

Bruce lay down with him to unlock the cuffs with shaking hands. They wrapped their arms around each other and lay glued together for a bit. Clark didn't touch the muzzle. Bruce touched it a lot. Safe.

"Do you want to see?" Bruce petted his hair.

Clark shook his head. He pointed at Bruce's eyes.

"Yes. I see you. I'll see for both of us."

Clark nodded and closed his eyes.

Bruce kissed the top of his head and held him close. "Good Clark."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Internerdionality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Internerdionality/) and [serephent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serephent/) for chapter beta!

**Author's Note:**

> This work is open-ended. I make no guarantees, but would enjoy getting requests, whether or not I can fill them. I am still adding chapters.
> 
> Work and chapter titles are all courtesy of Antoine de Saint Exupéry, _The Little Prince_ , ch. 21.
> 
> At the moment, the subsequent works in Kryptonite Collar are related, but not fluffy or cozy. For those here strictly for the cozy fluff, I'll give a jump link to the next fluff when it's posted.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Good things in life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25262155) by [vkfarenheit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vkfarenheit/pseuds/vkfarenheit)




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